Sense
by gaelicspirit
Summary: Set in Season 5. There are things that make him human. Deciding what those are will become the difference between sanity and madness. When a demon forces the issue, Dean and Sam fight back the only way they can: together. Warning for some darker themes.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** They're not mine. More's the pity.

**Spoilers:** Season 5, set after 5.05, _Fallen Idol_. Anything up to that point is fair game.

**a/n:** I had a dream.

No, really. I did. And I woke up, jotted it down, and it turned into this…. This is my first foray into Season 5. Because of the history and the destiny and all of the _weight_ of that season, I wasn't really ever sure I wanted to go there. But go there I have. We'll see if it works for ya'll. At the very least, I hope you're entertained.

**WARNING:** There are a couple "mature" scenes here in the first chapter and overall this story carries a bit of a darker theme than I've written before. I'm keeping it as a PG-13/T rating, but wanted to give you a heads up. As usual, I caution for bad words and the like in the chapters to come.

I hope you enjoy!

**Tammy**, this one is for you. Thank you for riding out the whimsy of my muse to receive your KazCon author's auction story almost a full year after the fact. _Ní dhíolann dearmad fiacha._

* * *

_Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul._

_~Oscar Wilde_

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"You took an angel to a whore house?"

"A strip club."

"A whore house fronting as a strip club."

"Dude, he was about to have a Holy-fire showdown; I wasn't gonna let him die a virgin."

"He's an _angel_, Dean. I kinda think that's the point."

Sam shoved a fry into his mouth as he watched his brother grin around the opening of a beer bottle. He knew that grin. It told him that Dean was dying to divulge more details, but was stubborn enough to wait him out.

Sam was going to have to ask.

"So…did he close the deal?"

Dean rolled his lips in as he swallowed, then leaned back into the corner of the booth. There was an air of coiled tension and heightened awareness around him, and yet it was the most relaxed Sam had seen his brother in weeks. The world was folding in at the seams, and for the first time in their adult lives, he and Dean were moving forward from a level playing field.

No roles of guardian and guarded. No hierarchy of age. No _watch out for your brother_.

He hadn't expected Dean to relax at all.

Their waitress paused at the table, asking with disinterest if their food was okay, and Dean nodded. As she left, Sam watched his brother's eyes follow her, then take in the dark edges of the bar and grill. People clustered around one of the two pool tables toward the back of the small, shadowed room. Four men flanked the corner of the bar, silently munching pretzels and staring up at the TV.

In the back of his mind, Sam registered a news reporter speaking in affected tones about record temperature extremes in the western part of Kansas, while in the eastern half, where they were, rain was causing the Missouri River to rise at what was—according to the over-excited reporter—an alarming rate.

_The Apocalypse is in our backyard,_ Sam thought, chewing the remains of his chicken sandwich.

"This anything like that place you worked, _Keith_?" Dean asked, poking at Sam's choice of alias while they'd been apart.

Sam ignored the jibe and looked around, nodding. "Sure. It's a bar, man. We've been in thousands."

"Yeah," Dean nodded, then sighed and leaned forward, resting his weight on his elbows and cupping his hands around the bottle of Dos Equis. "I guess we have."

Sam stifled a sigh; they were still working out the balance of conversation. The moment Dean had handed him Ruby's knife on that deserted back country road, Sam knew they'd have each other's backs in a fight. He knew that the big struggles would be rolled up into their history and they'd find ways to move in synch once more.

That wasn't what had him worried.

The details mattered now. The tense silence filled with unspoken thought where there had once been a comfortable quiet of understanding. The uncertain glances, the slight pause before speaking. They were all tells of a mending relationship between two people who'd been broken in one way or another.

_No one has ever done anything so bad that they can't be forgiven or can't change._

Lindsey's words clung to Sam's memory. Every time he saw shadows cross Dean's face, heard the breathless rustle of hellish nightmares still wrap around his brother at night, caught the note of doubt in a once-certain voice, Sam tried to find a way to tell Dean that same thing.

They'd both screwed up; they'd both suffered for it.

Dean so much as said that back in Canton. Sam was ready to steadfastly stand by his declaration that the only way they were going to get around their apparent angelic destinies was if they fought together. As Dean said, keep each other human. And right now, he needed to haul Dean up out of the thoughtful melancholy he so easily slipped into these days.

"So," Sam prompted, pushing his empty plate aside and reaching for his beer. "Did he get laid or what?"

Dean chuckled. "You looking to get some by proxy?"

"Hey," Sam tipped his fingers upward. "It's been a long time."

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "You mean you didn't let some honey share your motel bed while you were on your own?"

Sam felt a twisted chill curl around his spine as he thought of his dreams of Jessica, so real, so _needed_. He looked away, the taste of the beer souring on the back of his tongue as he remembered those dreams turning into a nightmare of truth as Lucifer washed away the image of Jessica's innocence.

"Sam?" Dean's voice cut through the memory with a blunted edge.

Sam looked back at his brother; he should remember that Dean missed nothing. Even when they were apart, somehow, Dean always sensed when something was off.

"No," Sam shook his head. "Nobody."

"What is it?"

Sam took another drink, wondering as he did why he'd been able to tell Dean about the horror of finding out he was to be Lucifer's vessel, but not _how_ he'd found out. Dean had divulged in horrific detail what his trip via angel transport to 2014 had been like. He'd shared with Sam every vampire nest he'd cleaned out, every low-level demon he'd killed, even how many times he'd washed and waxed the Impala while they were separated.

It was as if Dean had been trying to somehow insert Sam into those moments through the magic of storytelling. Sam had told him about working at the bar, about the hunters who'd found him—drawing Dean's lips back in a snarl as he recounted having to fight them off because they'd discovered he'd started the apocalypse—and about Lucifer's message.

But he'd left out Jessica.

The weakest point in the whole time he'd been away from Dean had been night, when he'd been most alone, when she'd been most real to him. He'd almost been ashamed of his need for her, of his gratitude that his brother hadn't been there to interrupt those moments, however false they'd been.

"Nothing," Sam muttered finally, lifting his shoulders and folding down his lips in a shrug. "Just…had a lot of dreams about Jessica during that time."

He hazarded a glance at his brother and saw something soften around Dean's eyes. He almost told him in that moment. The words were poised at the edge of release. _Lucifer used Jessica to break down my defenses. He got to me through her._

"If it's any consolation," Dean said, breaking the moment. "Been awhile for me, too."

"What?" Sam scoffed.

"You remember that girl from the library?"

"Girl from the li—"

"Before we got the call from Adam. Or, you know…ghoul-Adam."

Sam blinked, setting his beer down on the table with a _thunk_. "What!" This time it was said in shock.

Dean lifted his eyebrows and nodded.

"No way," Sam shook his head in denial. "Dude, that was…_months_ ago."

"Tell me about it."

"How are you even still walking?"

The door opened with a splash of the seemingly endless rain and Dean turned his head to watch a woman walk in, his eyes following her to the bar. "Kind of a lot has happened between then and now, Sammy."

"What about at the whore house?" Sam asked, still trying to connect the dots.

"That was for Cas," Dean said, sitting back once more, his gaze resting comfortably on the woman.

Sam rotated slightly so that he could follow Dean's eye line. The woman shoved a black hood from her head, shaking out shoulder-length dark hair and finger-combing it away from her face. He couldn't get a good look at her features, but she moved as if she were familiar with the place. As they watched, she shrugged out of the short, black leather jacket and hoodie combo and handed the wet garments across the bar to the bartender, laughing as she did so.

"You're telling me you sat at the bar like a good boy?" Sam pressed.

"Someone had to be the wingman," Dean said casually, then slid his eyes to Sam, grinning at his pun.

"Sad," Sam shook his head.

"You should've seen him, though, man," Dean chuckled. "He was like a kid playing spin the bottle for the first time. I thought he was going to hurl when the girl came out and led him back to her room."

"Probably felt heaven's wrath bearing down on him," Sam muttered.

Dean lifted a shoulder. "He didn't forget who he was," he said cryptically, stretching out one leg on the bench in front of him.

His face pulled into a slight grimace until he'd found a comfortable position, reminding Sam that his brother had recently had his ass handed to him by a pagan god—who just so happened to look like Paris Hilton.

"What do you mean, he didn't forget?"

Dean's grin crinkled slightly at the corners, causing Sam to lean forward in spite of himself. His brother had always had a gift for telling stories—especially if sex were involved. Sam signaled the waitress with two fingers and pointed to their beers, returning his attention to Dean when she nodded.

"Dean?"

"He, uh," Dean chuckled. "He told the girl that…it wasn't her fault that her father left."

"Oh, God, he didn't," Sam groaned, closing his eyes and rubbing the flats of his fingers across his lids. "He tried to _save_ her?"

Dean finished his Dos Equis and shoved the empty bottle to the back of the table, clearing space for the cold one the waitress _thunk_ed down in front of him. Taking a drink, he glanced at Sam.

"Kinda. I mean, I don't think he could help it."

"Doesn't he know every girl in there probably had the same story?"

The woman at the bar laughed again, this time tossing her head back as she did, and Sam watched Dean's eyes shift to her as if pulled by a magnet. Her laugh reminded Sam of Ellen Harvelle's: deep, throaty, and released with abandon.

"I thought it was…refreshing," Dean confessed. "I think I kinda forgot that some of those girls…I don't know…."

"Aren't there by choice?"

"Yeah, I guess," Dean nodded, rolling his neck. "Was a rush ducking the bouncers, though," he chuckled. "Hadn't laughed that long in—" He stopped suddenly, his eyes bouncing to Sam's, and then quickly away again. "Well, in awhile."

Sam rolled his shoulders back against the booth, sighing inwardly. "Yeah, well," he allowed. "We haven't had a lot to laugh about, have we?"

"Maybe we should change that," Dean said, tipping his chin to the side and catching Sam's eyes in a challenge that Sam hadn't seen on his brother's face in years.

"Yeah? How're we gonna do that?" Sam asked with a half-grin, thinking to indulge this game of make believe and lengthen the time Dean was relaxed around him.

"We stop."

Sam frowned. "Stop what?"

"Everything. Hunting. Traveling around this…_literally_ God-forsaken country." Gaze directed toward the middle distance, Dean's voice cracked slightly around his words.

Sam blinked, eyes taking in the expression on his brother's face, ineffectually trying to find the joke hidden in the lines around Dean's mouth.

"What do you mean, like, just…_ignore_ this whole Michael and Lucifer destiny stuff? Quit the apocalypse?"

"Yes," Dean turned toward him, dropping his foot back to the floor with a solid thud against the wood. "Yes, I mean exactly that."

Sam pulled his head back, unsure what road his brother's thoughts were suddenly traveling. He palmed his beer, letting the condensation from the bottle roll down the green glass and trip over his knuckles as he said, "We…we _can't_ quit, Dean."

"We're in Kansas City, Sam," Dean said, his chin lowering even as he kept his eyes on Sam's face. "Back to where we pretty much started. Wanna know what this place looked like the last time I was here?"

"You told me."

"That's right," Dean nodded, pointing at him and easing back against the booth. "That's right. I told you. It was Hell, Sam. Diseased and…and burned out. And why?"

"'Cause of us," Sam said quietly.

"'Cause we played their game," Dean redirected. "Or…didn't in my case."

"We _started_ this," Sam said. "This is happening _because of us_."

"So…we end it." Dean tipped his fingers up in a shrug. "We stop. They can't have their war without their vessels, right?"

Sam frowned at this thought. It couldn't be that easy. "What if they…pick someone else?"

"If there _was_ someone else," Dean said, slowly peeling the label off of his sweaty bottle in one long tug, "don't you think they would've picked them already?"

Sam looked away and down, considering. He'd told Lucifer no—to the fallen angel's face, more or less. Dean had told Zack what he could do with his flash of the future. How long would the opposing factions continue to pursue them?

Watching as Dean flattened the loose label on the table top, rubbing along the edges with his thumb, Sam found he was actually considering the idea. It was one thing for him to leave hunting—it was something completely different if Dean were with him.

"What would we do?"

Dean's shoulders flinched in what might've been a shrug. "Open a bar?"

"A bar? Like the _Roadhouse_?"

"You said it yourself," Dean glanced up at him too quickly for Sam to read his expression before he looked back at the Dos Equis label. "We've been in enough of them. You worked in one."

"Open a bar," Sam repeated slowly, tasting the words, letting the thought ricochet through his head.

"Few pool tables, few beer taps, some top shelf liquor…," Dean said, shifting once more, his eyes traveling to the woman at the bar who was now, Sam saw, looking back at him.

She was too far away to hear their conversation, but Sam could see in her expression what she wanted to be saying to his brother.

"We could host a regular poker night and clean up," Dean was saying.

"What if they come looking for us?"

"Salt the windows and the doors. Paint sigils on the outside of the building. Make 'em part of the décor."

"What if they kill people to get to us?" Sam pressed. "Like Meg did to Dad?"

Dean looked over at him and this time Sam caught his eyes, though the memories there were so thick they sucked the air from his lungs.

"What if Cas needs us?" Sam continued quietly, knowing how much worth his brother placed on the lives of their friends—and how close he'd gotten to the rogue angel.

Dean held completely still for a heartbeat, his eyes boring into Sam's as if he were searching for something. Finally, just as Sam felt himself turning to glass in front of the only person in the world who could truly see through him, Dean took a breath and turned away.

"Why you gotta shoot holes in all my plans, huh?" he said, his tone once more jovial, once more in step with the casual rhythm of conversation they'd perfected for moments that weren't supposed to matter. "You're gonna make me panic."

"Part of the job description," Sam replied, his mouth tugging upwards in a reluctant half-grin.

Dean arched an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? For which job?"

"Pain in the ass."

Dean chuckled, draining his second beer. "You're right, man," he sighed. "You can't quit who you were born to be."

"So you really think this is our destiny?" Sam asked quietly, needing to know, searching for grounding. "Being an angel's vessel?"

Dean shook his head once, decisively. "No," he said, leveling his eyes on Sam. "I think _they_ think that." He pointed at Sam, leaning further over the table. "Nobody controls your destiny except you, Sam."

"Yeah, maybe," Sam shrugged.

"Lemme ask you this," Dean said, arching a brow. "If I was _always_ supposed to be an angel condom, how come they let me go to Hell in the first place, huh?"

Sam blinked. He hadn't thought of that.

"They let their precious…_Michael's sword_…get…ripped up by Hellhounds," Dean spat, his eyes flat, but the quaver in his voice exposing the pain he could obviously still remember. "They let so many awful things…." He stopped, looking away, then down, his throat working as he swallowed, his eyes hidden from Sam. "Point is, they're stumbling around in the dark, same as we are." He lifted his head. "So I say, to hell with their destiny, right?"

"Right," Sam replied, surprised to find his voice closed off, the sound forced through stiffened lips.

"We're nobody's meat suits."

Sam grinned. "I'll drink to that."

"'Cept, you're on empty," Dean nodded toward his bottle. He glanced around the room. "I think Susie Sunshine ditched us."

Sam's eyes cut over to the brunette at the bar, noticing as he did that she glanced away. Looking back at his brother, Sam made a choice. Dean needed a break; Sam needed to give him one.

"How 'bout you head over to the bar and get some?" Sam let his lips tip up at his own joke.

Dean picked up the challenge immediately. "Oh, you don't think I can?"

"You're the one who said it had been months," Sam tossed back.

"Only 'cause I had demons to kill and a pain in the ass little brother to save."

"If that helps you sleep at night." Sam lifted a shoulder in a nonchalant shrug.

Dean tucked his tongue into his cheek and Sam watched an inner light hit his brother's eyes. "Oh, it's gonna be like that is it?"

"Exactly like that."

"Better find a ride home, brother, 'cause it's _on_," Dean stated, eyebrows up.

Sam lifted the Impala keys from his pocket and shook them. "I drove. _You_ find the ride."

Dean slid out of the booth and Sam watched him grip the edge of the table for the briefest of moments as he worked feeling back into his legs. His knee hadn't quite recovered from the impact of Leshii's Manolo Blahnik heel.

"Don't wait up." Dean turned from their table to approach the bar in a confident, rolling stride that had always left Sam just this side of jealous.

As he watched, Dean sat on a stool two down from the brunette and signaled the bartender with a tip of his chin. Looking at his empty bottle, Sam sighed. He knew that left-field comment about quitting was just Dean's way of attempting a semblance of control.

If he pretended he didn't care, then they couldn't get to him. Not really. Not where it mattered.

Not like they had before.

For a moment, Sam felt incredibly weary. All they'd survived, all they'd overcome, and all they had potentially yet to defeat pressed down on him and he felt his joints creaking with the weight.

This was more than war. This was a cage fight to the death and they'd been so close to tapping out only to grip tight to one another at the last possible moment and find their way out of the chasm.

_How long can we keep this up?_

The woman's throaty chuckle grabbed his attention again and he looked up to see Dean's face angled just so, offering her a look, taking her in with a glance. He'd watched his brother work his mojo on women enough times to know he was as good as in when her shoulders dropped just so and her hand moved to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

Digging a few bills from his pocket, Sam left them under the salt shaker and slid from the booth, heading back to the restrooms before he left so that he could make sure leaving was indeed in line with Dean's game. He caught his brother's eye surreptitiously and saw the two-beat blink that gave him the all-clear.

"Guess it's another night of pay-per-view," Sam muttered as he pushed open the restroom door.

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"Your partner?"

Her voice matched her laugh: husky. Like Kathleen Turner. _Or Princess Leia_, Dean thought with a buried grin.

He saw her glance skid across Sam's back as his brother retreated into the restroom and considered for one brief moment handing her a cover story. He had plenty on deck, and it wouldn't be as if he'd need to remember the lie. These encounters never really resulted in a repeat performance.

"My brother," he found himself saying.

"Oh yeah?" she tilted her head at that, her dark eyes sparking interest.

Dean nodded, returning his attention to his whiskey shot, holding the wide-mouthed glass with his thumb and the pad of his middle finger, then tipping it to watch the amber-colored liquid roll around the bottom.

"We're…kind of on an extended road trip," he told her, reverting back to what seemed like an age-old story. One they told when the worst thing they had to worry about was how many salt rounds to fire into a vengeful spirit.

Before they each had the fate of the world on their shoulders.

"Sounds like fun. What do you think of Kansas City?"

Dean huffed out a slightly strangled laugh and tossed back the whiskey. "It's a town," he shrugged, half-turning to face her. "But it does have some perks—"

A crash in the back of the room interrupted his delivery and he and the woman turned as one to face the crowd by the pool table as they grew increasingly rowdy. Dean slipped off his barstool and stood, watching tensely as fists were clenched and punches thrown. A blonde woman jumped onto the back of one of the brawlers, screaming obscenities until someone else pulled her free.

After several minutes, two bouncers grabbed the fighters and physically threw them out the front door and into the rain. It wasn't until the ruckus died down that Dean realized his body was coiled tight, his own fists at his sides. He forced himself to take a calming breath and felt eyes on him. Without turning, he knew they belonged to Sam. He sank back onto the barstool, then rotated around, letting his gaze hit his brother's worried face before looking back at the woman. He saw Sam leave the bar out of the corner of his eye.

"Rain brings out the crazies, huh?" he said with a half-hearted laugh.

She was watching him closely, the comfortable haze of alcohol that had loosened her shoulders replaced by something close to wariness. "Must be a full moon," she returned.

He shook his head. "Not for another four nights," he replied without thinking.

Her eyebrows climbed her forehead, speaking a paragraph on their journey. "Lunar enthusiast?" she commented dryly.

"Just…environmentally aware," Dean offered lamely, then turned back to the bar, signaling for another drink. Sam was going to kick his ass when he had to call him for a ride.

"Bet there isn't much you _aren't_ aware of," the woman said softly. "Where'd you serve?"

Dean frowned, looking over at her quickly. It was the second time someone had asked him that in the last month. "Come again?"

"You were about two seconds away from stepping into that dance," she said. "I bet you checked hands when you walked in here, too."

That pulled the corner of his mouth up in a quick bounce of a grin. "Yeah, actually."

"Two in the back, concealed handguns," she said, then tipped her head to the side to indicate the booths behind her. "Kenny Rogers back there has at least one. I'm guessing in his boot."

Dean was now turned, his left elbow resting on the bar, his body facing the woman. With a quick flicker of lashes he caught sight of a heavier set man with snowy white hair and a full beard and mustache digging in to a large steak and baked potato. He nodded.

"I'm thinking your brother was clean," the woman continued. "But I'm willing to bet he had plenty stashed somewhere else. Besides," she said, slipping from her stool and swinging her leg across the seat that had been vacant between them, "he didn't need anything did he?"

"He can take care of himself."

"And he had you," she said, glancing at the bartender and asking for another drink. "And I'll bet this drink that you've got…at least two weapons. So," she pressed. "Where did you serve?"

Dean swallowed, his eyes sliding down the length of her throat. Her ears were bare, as was her neck. She wore a black, V-neck T-shirt that covered the waistband of faded jeans and the toes of her black heels were scuffed. He glanced quickly at her hands; she wore a silver ring on her right thumb with what looked like a crescent moon inlaid in the metal. Nothing else.

"It's not really a great memory," Dean offered her.

"Hell, huh?" she asked, the question more layered then she could have possibly known.

"You could say that," he nodded, finishing another shot—he'd started to lose count at this point—and rolling his lips against his teeth. "You?"

She shook her head, a sad smile playing across her mouth. He noticed that her bottom lip was fuller than her top, giving her an almost innocent, pouty expression when she wasn't smiling.

"I serve every day," she told him. "I'm a cop."

_Fantastic, Winchester,_ he berated himself. _You sure can pick 'em._

He schooled his features quickly as she glanced up at him and he realized he saw something hesitant shifting in her dark eyes. Something that said, _if you're gonna run, do it now_. Something that challenged him.

"Dean," he said, dropping his chin slightly and meeting her eyes.

This time her smile was honest. "Raya."

"Interesting name," he said.

"Hebrew," she said. "Means 'friend.' My parents were Jewish."

"Doesn't that make you Jewish?" Dean asked.

"Only if I say it does," Raya said, lifting a shoulder.

Dean nodded, appreciation for this woman adding heat to the slow-burning fire in his belly. "Nice."

"So what do you do now, Dean?" Raya asked. "When you aren't traveling around the country with your brother, I mean."

Dean quirked his lips. "That's…complicated."

"Is it, now?"

"I could tell you, but—"

"You'd have to kill me?" she guessed, eyes just shy of rolling.

"But…then you might not find me half as interesting as you do now," he finished.

"What makes you think I find you interesting?" Raya challenged, arching a brow.

He liked how the ivory coloring of her skin contrasted with the dark shade of her hair and the almost ebony of her eyes. When she smirked, her skin pulled tight at the corner of her eyes and belied an affected expression of disinterest with the warmth captured in a glance.

"The way your shoulders shift," he started. "The position of your body. The fact that you can't stop touching your hair. How your eyes flashed just now. And the way your mouth looks like your lips are about to wrap around a word…or…something," he finished, allowing his words to guide him forward until he could feel her breath on his face.

"Oh," she breathed.

He didn't move. He simply watched her, waiting. After a moment, she tucked a breath of air deep inside and pulled herself upright.

"You have talent, Dean," Raya informed him, her voice steady once more. "Not a lot of people put me at a loss for words."

Dean grinned. "Don't feel too bad," he said. "I'm pretty sure in another environment, and without my friend Jack here," he tipped his glass toward her in a salute, "you would've had me pinned against a wall."

Raya's lips twitched. "Oh, don't worry," she said nodding her head toward the bartender and gesturing for her jacket. "I fully intend to pin you against a wall."

His body immediately responded, the blood in his head racing low.

"Just not one here," she finished. "You lost your ride, didn't you?"

Dean nodded, his mouth suddenly too dry to reply and keep his tough exterior in place at the same time.

"Well, I live two blocks down. Soon as you're ready, we can go."

"I'm good," he said, tossing back his last shot and slapping a couple of twenties on the bar. "We can go."

Raya tossed a wave at the bartender, then slid her arms into the sleeves of her layered jacket. "You got anything other than that?" She nodded at his green Army jacket.

He shook his head, resting his hand on the small of her back and matching her stride as she led the way out. "I'm okay with this."

"You're gonna be soaked," she warned.

"Guess you'll just have to figure out how to dry me off, then," he returned as they stepped into the roar of a Midwest thunderstorm.

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"…_I'm crossing here. And while you guys are dragging your candy-asses halfway across the state and back, I'll be waiting for you on the other side, relaxing with my thoughts."_

"_Do you use your left hand or your right hand for that?"_

Sam chuckled.

He'd seen this movie easily a dozen times. Not only that, Dean had read him the short story it was based on one Halloween when he'd been laid up with a broken ankle and John had been gone for several days. It reminded him of their childhood and a time so innocent in comparison to now that he almost felt like crying.

Clearing his throat, Sam capped the flask of whiskey he'd pulled from Dean's duffel and set it on the nightstand.

_Enough of that,_ he admonished himself, picking up the remote and flipping aimlessly away from _Stand By Me_, searching for something else.

Anything else.

His eyes flicked up to the cardboard stand on top of the TV advertising Skin-O-Max. He glanced toward the door. Theoretically, Dean should be gone for several hours. However, the last time he thought the coast was clear he'd been busted and had to do some throat-clearing through a rather awkward moment he'd rather not share with his brother.

Rubbing his face, Sam squared his shoulders and flipped through the eight channels once more, unable to keep his eyes from the advertisement.

"Oh, hell," he sighed, sliding one leg off the bed and letting his boot hit the floor as he leaned forward and aimed the remote at the TV.

It figured that he was left alone to release tension while Dean was out with an exotic-looking woman. Of course, the last time Sam was the one to get laid there had been demon blood involved. And the time before that, Dean accused him of bedding a siren. And then there had been Madison….

"Face it, Sam," he grumbled as he searched titles too embarrassing to say aloud, let alone cop to on a motel bill. "You do _not_ have the best luck with women. It's safer this way."

Settling on a selection that seemed to not bother with too much plot and basically got right down to business, Sam tossed the remote aside and leaned back against the pillows he'd stacked against the headboard. Closing his eyes, his hands moved to unfasten his belt and he froze.

_Jessica…._

The moment he closed his eyes, she was there. Next to him. In bed with him. Her hand sliding along his, lacing her fingers with his as he fumbled with his buttons.

_Is it really you?_

She didn't answer him, and he didn't open his eyes. She _felt_ real. He could even smell her if he concentrated hard enough. He wanted her to be real. He felt himself respond to the idea of her touch, her fingers, the feel of her skin on his, the sound of his name captured in her whisper.

His sigh caught, tripping across his tongue and tumbling from his lips as she seemed to tangle with him, wrapping around him, slipping into him as easily as he yearned to slide into her.

_Jess…._

The ring tone of his cell phone jarred him harshly from the moment. Gasping, Sam sat up, staring with bleary, confused eyes at the couple on TV. The gratuitous shots of flesh turned his stomach and he fumbled for the remote, turning the TV black and sending the room into silence except for his phone. He swallowed, looking around the room, half-hoping, yet half-afraid he'd still see Jessica.

The last time she'd remained real after he thought he was awake, she'd not truly been Jessica. She'd been a thing of nightmares.

"Dean," he practically growled as he reached for his phone. "You better have a goddamn good reason for this." He picked up the phone, flipped it open and frowned at the unfamiliar number. "Yeah?"

"_Sam. It's Castiel."_

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Raya's place was small, but Dean found he didn't feel cramped. The simple furnishings and black and white photographs complemented each other. She led him through a curved door into a small living room with a couch, a couple of wooden, high-backed chairs, a bookshelf, and a TV, then asked him to wait there while she moved through another archway into what appeared to be a kitchen.

He glanced to his left and saw that the door to her bedroom was partially open and the sparse furnishing continued in there as well. In a moment, she returned with two beers in on hand and a towel in the other. He took a beer and the towel with a smile.

"This is Steve," Raya said, nodding toward a pathetic-looking potted plant hanging from the ceiling in the corner of the room. "Say hi."

"You named your plant?" He asked, eyebrow arched as he rubbed his wet hair with the towel.

"Don't look at me like I'm eight kinds of crazy," she said. "He's my starter plant."

"Starter for…what, exactly?"

"Well," she shrugged out of her jacket layers and tossed them over a chair. "If I can keep Steve alive for a year, then I'll get a fish, and maybe, eventually, graduate all the way up to a dog."

Dean laughed appreciatively, dropping the towel and slipping out of his wet jacket. Raya was looking at him and there was something unguarded in her expression. He found his eyes moving to her mouth, his libido urging him to move, conquer.

After all, this was why he was there.

"Be right back," Raya said suddenly, heading back toward the kitchen once more, setting her beer on the top of her TV as she passed by.

He took a breath and then drank deeply from his bottle. The hops hit the back of his tongue and he felt it roll down his alcohol-slicked throat and fill his belly. He wasn't drunk—took a lot more than what he'd had these days for that condition to set in—but his head was, as Pink Floyd said, comfortably numb. He moved toward the bookcase on legs that seemed to belong to someone else, smiling at the heady feeling of detachment.

Control was the essence of his reality these days. Had been since he'd been ripped free of Hell and clawed his way through the earth to taste the sweetness of air once more. Control over his environment, over his brother, over himself. He'd held that grip so tightly he'd almost lost Sam in the process and had felt himself slowly cracking from the inside out.

He wanted to just _feel_. Allow himself to be in the moment. Let it wash over him. Escape inside of it.

He didn't want worry about consequences or destiny; he didn't want to worry about each step, each choice, each breath being the difference between saving the world and ending it.

His eyes scanned Raya's books without comprehension and he ran his index finger along the spines, letting the digit bounce loosely against the bindings, listening as the dull, playing-card-in-bicycle-spoke sound filled the small room. Before he could repeat the motion, music slipped around the corner and stroked his ears, pulling his head around toward its source. He peered into the shadow of the small room that connected Raya's living room to her kitchen.

"What is that? Fats Domino?" he called.

"Ack, heathen!" Raya scoffed from the other room. "Louis Armstrong. You like?"

Dean curled his lip, finishing his beer. "I'm more of a classic rock guy," he replied.

Raya appeared then, moving from the shadows of the anteroom into the living room, dressed in only a black bra and panties, a shoulder holster that had apparently been situated under her T-shirt, still latched onto her body.

"But a man can change," Dean said softly. He set his empty beer bottle on the bookshelf.

Raya moved forward, in step with the music, unlatching the shoulder holster. Dean swallowed.

"Listen, uh," he started to shake his head. "I'm not really…into…y'know…romance."

Raya chuckled. "This isn't romance, Dean," she said. "This is me getting my head in the game." She tossed the holster—and gun—on the couch, stopping just shy of touching him. "You ever have too much in your head? Too many voices, too much to do?"

Dean's nod of assent was jerky, stilted, as he looked down at her, seeing her eyes, her lips, the rise of her breasts, the points of her hips.

"Sometimes it won't be quiet and I can't breathe," she reached up with the tips of her fingers and pushed his green long-sleeved shirt off his shoulders, exposing the black T-shirt beneath. "And if I can't breathe…neither of us'll have much fun."

He let the shirt slip from his arm and pool around his boots.

"So, Louis, huh?" he said, his voice husky, low, his lips inches from hers.

"He gets me," she whispered, then lifted Dean's hand and pressed it against the hollow between her breasts, "right here."

Dean sank into her with a sound somewhere between a sigh and groan, scooping the base of her skull with palms of his hands and tangling his fingers into her dark hair. Her bottom lip fit comfortably between his, and he teased it slightly with the tip of his tongue before pulling her in and against him like a breath of air.

He felt her hands on the base of his T-shirt, hungry fingers seeking the feel of skin on skin, and reached back to grasp the cloth between his shoulder blades, pulling it over his head. As Raya watched, her lips slightly red from contact with his days-growth of stubble, he pulled a Beretta from a lower-back holster, ejected the magazine and popped the chambered bullet from the slide.

Pocketing the loose bullet, he dropped the weapon and clip on top of his shirts.

"Nice," Raya purred. "Nine millimeter?"

Dean gave her a half smile.

"One down," Raya said softly, stepping close to him. "One to go."

"G'luck finding that one, sweetheart," Dean murmured against her mouth.

Raya pressed her hips close to him, canceling out all thought of further conversation until he could taste her once more. Slipping his hands to her jaw he held her face still, then touched his lips carefully to hers until, with a harsh breath bordering on desperation, she wrapped her arms around his bare shoulder and pressed him close.

Kissing did interesting things to Dean.

More often than not, he was too busy working to get to the point of physical oblivion to worry about the seduction of a kiss. But when a woman wanted him to take his time, he was willing to give them whatever they needed. And when they offered him back the same amount of intimacy, he felt his belly uncoil with a unique, liquid heat.

It wasn't the same as sex. It was closer. More real. More…vulnerable. It was why, he presumed, crossroad deals were sealed in such a manner. And it had taken several kisses from several women to rid his mouth of the taste of dirt.

Raya tasted like whiskey. The taste itself was infinitely more intoxicating that the drink had been. He ran his tongue along the inside of her lip, feeling the smooth enamel of her teeth, then slanted to dip deeper, stroking the roof of her mouth and feeling the thrill of the touch shimmer through his core.

She pressed against him and he felt the silk of her skin—the muscles underneath rolling and pushing, moving him backwards even as she kept him close—against the coarse hairs of his arms, the plane of his chest. His shoulders hit the door of her bedroom and he curved his back to push it open. The apartment was small enough that the music carried into this room, playing a background of jazz with the sound of their quick gasps for air and low groans of pleasure.

"You know how to kiss a woman," Raya said, breathless.

"Haven't practiced on anything else," Dean returned.

She pushed at him—not rough, but with intent—until he felt his back hit the far wall. Dean's grin was slow as she ran her hands along his arms and pressed them above his head.

"Told you," Raya said.

He felt his grin turn slightly feral as he slipped quickly from her grasp, grabbed her backside and lifted her until her legs instinctively circled his waist. Turning quickly, he pressed her against the wall, his mouth at her throat.

"Touché," she murmured, her head falling back to expose more of her flesh, her legs flexing around his waist in reaction to his touch. "I think one of us has too many clothes on."

"I can do something about that," Dean replied, slipping a hand behind her back and twisting the clasp of her bra with practiced fingers.

"I was talking about you." Her mouth was at his temple.

He let his hands trail up the smooth curve of her waist as she slid down his body. He toed off his boots, keeping the throwing knife tucked safely in the sheath fashioned inside the left one.

Raya climbed onto the mattress backwards, kicking the quilt and sheets free as she did. He shimmied free of his jeans and boxers, watching with appreciation as she moved. She was trim, but carried her share of scars.

"Bullet?" he asked, crawling toward her.

She shifted so that his approach led up between her legs. Hooking her heels into the bend of his knees, she looked up at him. "Yeah. Twice." She trailed her fingers down several scars on his chest, and the nearly faded mark where Castiel had pulled him free of Hell. Though it no longer resembled a handprint, a scar remained. "You too?"

"Knives, mostly," he said, though he knew some of the bruises sustained from Leshii's attack traced his ribs and one knee.

Thin white lines and puckered purplish tissue scored the history of the past year on his skin. His life left its score.

And there had been more. So many more. Until Hell. Until Castiel.

"Interesting tat," she whispered, drawing him closer until he felt her heat against him.

"Protects me," he whispered.

"From what?" she replied, her mouth at his chin.

He saved himself from answering by kissing her once more, trailing his mouth along the shape of her jaw, finding her earlobe with his teeth. He knew the sensitive points on a woman's body, knew how tracing the curve of her ear would send shivers to her belly and cause her to arch up against him—just as he wanted.

It never failed to intrigue him, though, how the first moments of connection were filled with hesitant approaches, uncertain fingers, and unfamiliar touch. No two women's hands had ever felt the same against his skin, even though they always followed the same path. There was an instinct to grip, to stroke, to soothe and caress, to dig and claw.

Raya fumbled for the small drawer inside the nightstand next to her bed. Guessing what she was reaching for, Dean leaned over and found the small foil packet, ripping it open with his teeth. It amused him that he'd applied this very metaphor to his destiny not hours ago.

Once they were safe, he felt Raya roll against him, pliant and willing, seeming to search for the same release, the same escape. No promises, no obligation, just the irreplaceable connection of touch.

He felt heat fist inside him, felt it follow the path of her fingers down the dip of his spine and gather at the small of his back as she latched on. Her gasp as he entered her was welcome and ragged. Dean shut everything out but the rhythm; ignored everything but the build. The tension coiled in him clamped down harder around his resolve, twisting and churning until he felt as if his core was alight with the heat of it.

Raya moved almost silently beneath him, strong fingers clinging to his shoulders, nails digging in. Dean felt her breath begin to hitch, her stomach muscles tighten. With practiced ease, he slid his hands beneath her shoulder blades, hoisting her up with him as he straightened and holding her against him as he kept them connected.

Lips parted, eyes hooded, they faced each other, moving with instinct. His hands spanned Raya's back, hers clutching at his shoulders, and Dean felt himself crest, spilling over a dizzying edge, his forehead meeting the hollow of her throat as she canted her head back, moving for a few beats more until he felt her tighten and tremble, her breath matching his in staccato bursts.

Boneless, spent, and more than satisfied, Dean allowed them to tumble sideways onto the bed. He rolled slightly away from her, but kept his arm around her, her head lolling toward his shoulder as she worked to catch her breath.

"Wow," she said finally.

"Exactly," Dean agreed.

"Wanna go again?" Raya asked.

Dean chuckled weakly. "Honey, you're gonna have to give me a minute."

"I can wait a minute," Raya grinned, sitting up.

"Or…two," Dean closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of liquid gold rolling through his system. "'Course…we could always use your cuffs…," he teased.

"I don't have handcuffs," Raya told him.

Dean opened one eye. "What kind of cop doesn't have handcuffs?"

"The kind that goes undercover," she replied. "I use zip ties. Easier to conceal, easier to explain, and a helluva lot harder to get out of."

Dean winced. "I'll say."

"Plus…," she traced a tip of her finger around the edge of his tattoo, "I'm not exactly…on duty right now."

"Is that right?" Dean glanced askance at her profile.

She shrugged, sweat glistening on the curves of her prominent cheekbones. "Somebody thought I needed to get perspective…." She waved her hand in the air above Dean's chest.

He closed his eyes. He could relate.

Raya stretched out on her stomach with a satisfied groan, her head toward the foot of the bed, giving him a view of her backside. "I'm thirsty."

"Me too," Dean said. "Could go for a beer."

"I left mine on the TV out in the living room," Raya said lazily, making no move to get up.

Dean waited a beat, then sighed loudly. "I'll go…," he groaned, rolling to his side, then sitting up and grabbing his jeans.

"Wait," she said, holding out her hand. "Leave them."

Dean arched an eyebrow, looking at her over his shoulder.

"I want to enjoy the view," she continued.

He wasn't modest and had often walked around naked in their motel room simply to tick off his brother. But moving around a stranger's apartment without even his clothes to protect him wasn't something he was going to concede.

"Maybe next time, sweetheart," Dean grinned, standing and pulling his jeans over his bare hips before he made his way out through the door and toward the source of Louis Armstrong's voice to grab Raya's beer. He was about to lift the bottle and take a drink when the peace of the night was destroyed.

With bone-jarring suddenness, Raya's front door blasted open and Dean caught the reflection of two figures in the darkened TV as they rushed toward him. Instinctively, Dean turned, gripping the beer bottle by the neck and flung out his arm to crash the dark glass against the skull of a figure in black.

He had roughly two seconds to register that there were now three people in the living room before a fist the size of a sledge hammer slammed into his face and darkness followed with haste.

www

"Virus? What virus? You mean the Croatoan virus?" Sam asked the angel, frowning into the mouth of the phone as he fastened the buttons of his jeans.

"_This would be easier to explain without this…phone,"_ Castiel replied, his modulated voice betraying signs of frustration.

Sam sighed. He knew the Enochian symbols Castiel had carved onto his and Dean's ribcage made it so that even he couldn't find them without first knowing their location. Sam would never admit it to Dean, but he actually liked that little bit of anonymity.

"We're in Kansas City," Sam said, swinging his legs off the side of the bed and leaning his elbows on his knees. "An Econo Lodge off of I-70—"

He'd barely finished the last word before Castiel appeared in the center of the room.

"Room 235," Sam said, unnecessarily.

"Why are you here?" Castiel asked, the cell phone still up at his ear.

Sam closed his phone, breaking the connection. "That's my line."

"Dean was just in Kansas City," Castiel said, looking at his phone with what appeared to be confusion, then closing it and sliding it into the pocket of his ever-present trench coat. "It did not end well."

"Yeah, I know," Sam replied, standing and facing the angel. "But we left Canton a few days ago and didn't really have a next stop. We knew this place."

"It is unwise to return to familiar ground too often," Castiel cautioned. "You do realize there are demons who want your brother dead."

"Uh, yeah," Sam lifted an eyebrow and moved across the room to their duffel bags, searching for the notes he'd taken on the Croatoan virus. "I noticed."

"Where is Dean?"

"Out," Sam replied. "You gonna tell me what all this Croatoan panic is about?"

"It isn't the Croatoan virus," Castiel informed him, causing Sam turn around in surprise.

"I thought you said—"

"I merely said demonic virus. You drew your own conclusions."

Sighing, Sam dropped into one of the chairs flanking the small table their duffels rested upon. "How about you start from the beginning?"

"We need to find Dean," Castiel insisted.

"Dean's fine," Sam snapped. "He needs a break."

Castiel's eyebrows drew close, his lips tipping downward. "I suppose separating himself from Lucifer's vessel is ultimately the smartest decision. However, I'm troubled that he didn't tell me he was leaving."

"He didn't _leave_." Sam was surprised by the pang that shimmied through him at Castiel's casual reference to his being Lucifer's vessel—and that Dean would be smart to leave him. "He's just…clearing his head."

"Ah. He's with a woman." Castiel frowned.

Unbidden, Sam's imagination painted images of Castiel saving souls in a whore house and he was forced to glance away.

"Tell me what you know, Cas," Sam insisted. "What are you so worried about?"

"There is a virus—created by a demon," Castiel said, his deep voice managing to sound even more grave than usual. "The manufacturers of this virus intend to inject it into Dean."

"How do you know this?" Sam frowned, the thought of demons anywhere near Dean making his heart thud painfully.

"How I know is irrelevant," Castiel replied, looking away from Sam.

Sam narrowed his eyes. "Who have you been talking to, Cas? I thought you were, I don't know…cut off or whatever."

"I have…brothers," Castiel stated, his gruff voice hesitant, "who understand that exceptions must be made."

"Brother's like Zachariah?" Sam asked, his voice flat. He shared Dean's healthy dislike for the manipulative angel.

"Zachariah has nothing to do with this. We need to find Dean," Castiel insisted. "I will retrieve him if you reveal his location."

"Why?" Sam muttered, standing and crossing the room to grab his boots.

Castiel actually drew back. "Why?"

Sam shook his head. "Not, why do we need to find him," he clarified. "Why inject him with a virus?"

"I think answer to that is obvious," Castiel replied.

"If they could find him, why not just kill him?" Sam pulled his laces tight. "I mean, they tested the Croatoan virus on me…and now we know why. But…why bother with a demonic virus for Michael's vessel?"

Castiel tilted his head in concession. "Perhaps there is an alternative explanation."

"Your source didn't clue you in?" Sam asked, checking the clip of his Glock and slipping the weapon into his back waistband before going for the demon-killing knife.

"No," Castiel answered simply.

"Then how do you know they want to inject Dean?"

"Because I was told," Castiel practically growled, advancing toward Sam, his expression grim. "This virus is new. I do not know how they manufactured it; I only know what it will do once injected."

"Yeah? And what's that?"

"It will systematically shut down the human senses."

Sam brought his head up. "It'll do what now?"

"The human senses," Castiel repeated. "Taste, smell, touch, sight, hearing—"

"I _know_ what the senses are, Cas," Sam lifted a hand to stop the angel from continuing. "How does it shut them down?"

"It impedes the brain's natural connections until it results in death."

"Death?" Sam's frown was fierce. "How?"

Castiel's lips pulled tight in a very human expression of anxiety. "The virus works until it shuts down the kinesthetic receptors in the internal organs that are neurologically linked to the brain."

"Kinesth-?" Sam's eyes darted as he began to calculate the implications of what Castiel was saying. "You mean like…sensory receptors."

"The victim will ultimately suffocate because his lungs will not know they need to inflate," Castiel said, bringing it home for him.

"Holy shit," Sam breathed.

"Yes," Castiel nodded in agreement, looking infinitely relieved that Sam was once again in motion.

"What about those Enochian symbols you branded onto us?" Sam asked. "Won't they protect him?"

"From detection, yes," Castiel nodded. "But if he's found by other means—"

"Yeah, okay, I get it," Sam sighed, understanding Castiel's concern for them returning to Kansas City when Dean had been there so recently. A thought occurred to Sam. "Why did you call me, Cas? Why not just call Dean directly?"

"I called him first," Castiel informed him. "When I didn't reach him, I called you."

At that Sam's worry flashed straight to panic.

"C'mon," Sam said, grabbing his coat and slipping the demon knife into a holster he'd fashioned to conceal the large blade. "We gotta head back to that bar."

"I will take us," Castiel offered, reaching for Sam.

Sam flinched away. "No, not yet," he said. "Dean told me how fun a ride on your angel transport is. Plus…we, uh…gotta ask some questions first and I don't want to freak anyone out," he finished.

"Questions of whom?"

"Bartender," Sam replied, opening the motel room door. "He knew the woman Dean was with. He'll know where they went."

www

He was cold.

Which didn't make sense because having sex should have heated him up. And he was pretty sure he'd just had sex. Unless that was one vivid dream. In which case, he'd be willing to bet Sam had heard some of it.

Voices swam up around him, tuning in as the sensation of being submerged abated and clarity began its painful return. His face throbbed and there was a distinct tang of a rusted nickel in the back of his throat. Swallowing, he slipped his tongue between dry lips and tasted the salt of his own blood.

Instinctively he moved to wipe it off, only then realizing that his hands were bound behind him. He could tell his was sitting up, the surface unyielding beneath his jean-clad legs. His bare back sagged against hard slats and his arms were pulled uncomfortably tight against each other.

"…doesn't do us much good if you kill him."

"Relax. Look. He's comin' around."

The female voice was vaguely familiar, but the male voice…he knew he'd never heard that fake New Jersey accent before. And unknown, in Dean's experience, meant hostile. His neck burning from muscles stretched too far, Dean slowly raised his head. He wasn't able to open his left eye completely, but the vision in his right cleared quickly.

Raya stood in the middle of her living room, dressed once more in the clothes she'd been wearing when he met her at the bar. Behind her stood a man doing his best to impersonate Sylvester Stallone. Next to him was a smaller, weasely-looking man with rimless glasses catching and reflecting the light and tracks of blood painting one cheek where Dean's bottle had connected.

"Hello, lover," Raya greeted him. "Thought you were gonna sleep all night."

"Raya," Dean replied, his voice rough. "Moe. Curly," he nodded to the two heavies standing on either side of her.

Sly growled, curling his fingers into a fist, popping each knuckle with the motion.

"Neat trick," Dean rasped. "Does it talk, too?"

"You want I should crack open his other eye?" the man growled.

Dean's eyebrows bounced up, and he dropped his chin. "Seriously?"

"Okay, enough," Raya snapped, a hand out to Sly, her eyes on Dean. "This is getting us nowhere and we're running out of time."

"You got an appointment or something?" Weasel asked.

Raya shot him a look. "No, but you guys weren't exactly in stealth mode. He's gonna have people looking for him."

"Yeah," Dean said, his voice growing in strength. "I've got people."

Sly snarled and Dean kissed the air in the man's direction, twisting his hands against the bindings. The immediate sting that shot through his arms to his shoulders told him what he'd feared: Raya had used her zip ties. Working to get loose would only cut into him and pull the binding tighter.

"That's right, gorgeous," Raya said, suddenly in his eye line. "You're not slipping free this time." Her lips twisted in a disturbingly familiar quirk. "And nobody's gonna pull you out."

Dean narrowed his right eye, trying to ignore the flesh swelling around his left, and tilted his head to the side. "I know you from someplace?"

Raya pouted. "Dean," she whined. "I'm hurt. After all…I was your first."

The effect of her words was immediate and overpowering.

Flashes of heat, of cold, of knives and salt and flames…the sound of a scream so raw and full of pain and anger that it scored his heart…the smell of sulfur and burning flesh…the feel of blood slick on his hands, his face….

Dean gasped. "How…." He had to take another breath before continuing. "How did you get out?"

Raya smirked. "Your brother changed the rules when he turned the devil loose."

She'd been on the rack.

She hadn't been _Raya_ then, of course, but he'd met her in Hell. His hand had trembled so violently he'd barely been able to grip the knife. His body had been on fire from pain—unlike anything he'd ever experienced. There wasn't a source, a wound…it simply radiated from him. His soul had been bleeding and no one saw.

No one cared.

He'd wanted so badly for it to stop. He had died over and over, filled with agony, filled with rebellion. For years. He'd screamed for Sam. For help. For release. For relief.

It came with his first cut into another soul. _Her_ soul. She'd begged just as he'd begged. And he'd cut her just as they'd cut him. He'd turned off everything human inside of him, everything that had been _Dean_.

And he'd taken her apart.

"What do you want?" His lips quivered with his hate, his voice undulating with memories.

Raya's smile widened, looking feral on her delicate face. "I know what you're thinking, Dean."

He forced his eyebrow up, saying nothing.

"You're wondering how long I've been wearing her."

Dean set his face, his eyes empty, his mouth a thin line. He would not give her the satisfaction of seeing his skin crawl.

She moved forward, with Raya's grace, Raya's stride, until her knees touched his. She leaned over, her hands flattened on the tops of his thighs, and peered into his eyes.

"You're wondering if you have more in common with your demon-fucking brother than you thought," she whispered.

Dean watched with buried horror as her eyes slid to onyx, her face suddenly looking unnatural: a mask of innocence pulled over something evil.

He leveled his eyes on her, forcing himself to focus and remember that he was shielded from them; they couldn't have known he and Sam would be at that bar. They had to have found him by accident, pure chance. Perhaps tracking his movements, but not anticipating them. The woman he'd escaped inside earlier that night had been human, pure and simple.

"It's not gonna work," he growled.

"Oh, really?"

"I know when you took her."

"Are you sure about that?" Her voice was a hiss.

Dean looked over her shoulder at the two demons standing behind her. "Those two were at the bar," he said. "Watching the news. Right fellas?"

Sly's lip curled up in response. Weasel remained quiet.

"Don't know where _you_ were hiding," Dean shifted his gaze to Raya's demon, "but I know you just got this body."

The demon smirked, opening her mouth to retort, but Dean cut her off.

"I know how a demon tastes," he whispered. "How it feels. Or did you forget how long I spent taking your kind apart?"

Her eyes slid back to normal—or as normal as a demon wearing a human could look to Dean—and she straightened up.

"I used to be _your_ kind, y'know," she said quietly.

"Cry me a river," he snarled, feeling the zip ties cut into the flesh on the back of his wrists.

"This could've been you, Dean." Her hand traced a path down her chest, fingers bouncing lightly against the cotton of her T-shirt.

"Yeah, but it isn't." Dean leveled his eyes on her, feeling the heat from his nightmare echoing in his gaze.

"Right." Raya's demon nodded, turning away and crossing her arms. "'Cause you have yourself a guardian angel."

Dean didn't reply.

Raya rotated again, facing him, her smirk reminding him once again of the girl on the rack, the hatred she'd spat at him. "Tell me, Dean…," she sing-songed at him. "What makes you _different_ from me, huh?"

"I'm better looking, for one thing," he retorted.

"Is it your soul?" she continued as if he hadn't spoken. "No…no, 'cause_ I_ have a soul. Demented and twisted, perhaps, but still, it's something. What else…?" She moved in a slow figure-eight pattern between Sly and the Weasel, tapping her index finger against her chin. "What makes you _human_, Dean?"

He wasn't sure where she was going with this, but he was starting to get a very bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. His fingers had long since gone numb, but he twisted them anyway, needing to do _something_ to free himself.

Raya's demon paused in front of the Weasel, holding out her hand. The Weasel reached into the front pocket of his jacket and Dean felt his muscles tightening in anticipation. When he withdrew a large syringe and placed it carefully in Raya's upturned palm, Dean felt himself instinctively draw back.

"I want you to do something for me, Dean. I want you to think about the taste of your favorite food," Raya's demon said, turning to face him, the syringe lifted so that the large needle gleamed in the lamplight. "I want you to think about how it felt touch this body. Think about how much you love listening to your precious music. Think about seeing your brother."

She stepped closer to him, leaning down and resting her lips against his ear. "Now think about that all going away."

"Hate to break it to you, bitch," Dean growled, "but I've got some angels who might not take so kindly to you killing me."

Raya straightened, her laugh humorless. "Oh, they'll smite me, is that it? Maybe bring you back from the dead?"

"Bet your ass," Dean replied, his voice tight with the pain from his bindings. He could feel his own blood slicking his hands as the zip ties cut deeper. "You kill me? You got an army of angels on your six."

"Who said anything about killing you?" Raya returned.

Sly chuckled low and each grunt-like sound dug a hole deeper into Dean's gut.

"What?" he couldn't help but gasp.

"I'm giving you a fair shot, Dean," Raya informed him. "This syringe is filled with a unique virus that my companion here concocted," she tipped her head back toward the Weasel, who grinned in response. "There is only one antidote. And only one way you're gonna get it."

"Yeah?" Dean snarled. "And what's that?"

"You give me the Eye of God."

www

"How do I know you're a friend of Raya's?" the bartender challenged them as Sam asked once more for her address.

_Raya,_ Sam noted. At least now he had a name besides Hot Chick At Bar.

"Listen, you don't remember me?" Sam implored, his frustration at not being able to charm the information out of this man beginning to bleed through his tone. "I was in here with my brother like three hours ago, man. I left, he hooked up with Raya. I just gotta find him, that's all."

"Tell us and we will leave your body intact," Castiel chimed in.

Sam closed his eyes briefly, then said with teeth clenched, "Not. Helping."

"You with those other two?" the bartender asked, edging slightly away from Castiel.

Sam frowned. "What other two?"

"The probation officers. Said they were looking for the guy Raya hooked up with," the bartender shrugged. "Figured she'd want to know, being a cop and all. So I told them where to find her."

"What did they look like—these probation officers?" Sam asked, worry clipping the edges of his voice, his eyes hard.

The bartender shrugged. "One was big. Other guy had glasses."

Castiel glanced at Sam. "This is insufficient information. If they were de—"

"-_tectives_," Sam broke in loudly. "You're right. If they were detectives, then Dean's okay." Sam leaned across the bar. "But I won't know that for sure until I find where he went with Raya."

His glance darting quickly between Sam and Castiel, the bartender told them where Raya lived. Sam's stomach clenched as he turned toward the door.

"C'mon," Sam muttered. "Even if you're wrong about this virus—"

"I am not wrong," Castiel asserted.

"—Dean's still got two random goons looking for him. Not like we announced our travel plans," Sam muttered as they exited the bar and returned to the rain-soaked night, his thoughts on the last time he'd been caught unawares by hunters who'd known his name. "How'd they even know who he is?"

"You are known," Castiel informed him, water plastering his brown hair to his skull. "Both of you."

"Known?" Sam scoffed, pausing with his hand on the door of the Impala, blinking rain out of his eyes. "What, are there like…wanted posters pinned to a wall in Hell or something?"

"No wanted posters," Castiel said as he climbed into the car. "But we need to hurry, Sam."

"Why?" Sam shot at the angel as he slammed the Impala's door behind him, shutting out the rain and firing up the engine. He ignored the water they were both getting all over the interior of the Impala. "What aren't you telling me, Cas?"

"I don't know how quickly the virus works," Castiel told him. "If they have already reached Dean—"

"Yeah, yeah," Sam muttered, flattening the accelerator. "Story of our damn lives."

www

"The…what?" Dean stared up at the demon inside Raya with complete confusion.

"I know you have it, Dean. I killed the man who gave it to you."

Dean let out a strangled laugh. "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

"Really?" Raya tilted her head. "That's a shame."

Without warning, Raya spun the syringe in her hand and with a powerful downward thrust, buried the needle into the soft flesh at the base of Dean's neck. Even before she depressed the plunger, Dean was breathless from pain. His body spasmed, shaking against the wooden chair, bindings tearing into his flesh.

When the fire hit his blood stream, Dean couldn't help it: he screamed. The sound ripped from his gut as if yanked free by demonic fingers. He'd only screamed like this once before: in Hell. With hooks shoved through his body, stringing him up and filling him with desperate pain. It was the sound of hope dying, shredding his throat with its exodus.

Lava licked his flesh from the inside out, turning his vision white, stealing what was left of his control, sending him spinning. Vaguely, he felt the needle being tugged from his body, but the pain didn't abate. It simply rolled through him until he searched in vain for the blackness that rode the coattails of such agony.

But he was denied.

Gasping, unbidden tears spilling over his bruised features, his jaw tight from clenching his teeth, Dean peered up at Raya. Her scream echoed in his mind and he saw pleasure in her eyes. As if his pain was thrilling her in ways he didn't want to contemplate.

Just as he felt himself helplessly sagging against his bindings, the door behind his torturers shattered with the force of a powerful kick. Dimly, Dean registered Sam and Castiel moving into the room with the grace of twin hurricanes, water splashing from their sodden figures. His vision blurred as Castiel lifted a hand and Raya flew backwards, slamming into the couch and falling to the floor.

He saw Sam attack with frightening strides, the knife they'd used to kill Ruby cutting into Sly before the big demon could tighten its sledgehammer-like fist. With another furious arc of motion, Sam slit the Weasel's throat and both demons crackled and burned before the bodies they'd stolen fell to their knees.

Dean worked to keep his head up, to stay conscious, but he was spent, his will disintegrating with each ragged breath. He saw a swimming image of Raya's demon struggling to her feet as Sam moved forward, rage clear in his eyes.

_Sam…wait…no…. _

He wanted to call out, to stop his brother from killing this one.

_Not her. Save this one._

"You have two days, Winchester," Raya said.

And then Dean heard what he knew was the demon turning tail and escaping through Raya's opened, screaming mouth. Silence followed her departure and as Dean let his eyes fall closed, he heard Raya's unconscious body crumple to the ground.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was breathless and thick at the same time.

Dean could feel his brother's hands on his cheek, at his jaw, lifting his face upward.

"Hey, hey, c'mon, Dean, don't do this, don't…don't do this. Open your eyes, Dean, okay?"

Dean wanted to, if only to reassure Sam. But the weakness that followed the rush was overpowering.

"Cas?" Sam was saying. "Cut him loose."

Dean felt rough fingers against his arms, then the cool flat of a blade and suddenly he was tipping forward, tumbling into his brother's waiting arms.

"Dean?"

_Sam…._

"Dammit," Sam whispered, and Dean felt his body being held close. "What did they do to you?"

The demon's voice swam through his head and he breathed in, pulling with that breath the clean scent of his brother.

"T-Two …days," he croaked, still unable to open his eyes.

"For what, Dean?" Sam asked, almost rocking him. "Two days to do what?"

But exhaustion's power was relentless and Dean succumbed, sagging against the warmth of the one person he knew could keep him human.

* * *

**a/n: **Thank you for reading. I was going to wait until I had all chapters written before I started posting, but I was encouraged to go ahead and post this as a WIP. I'll strive to update every two weeks (or sooner), RL willing.

Hope to see you in the next chapter!


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer/Spoilers:** See chapter 1

**WARNING:** This story carries a bit of a darker theme than I've written before; wanted to give you a heads up. I caution for bad words and the like in the chapters to come.

**a/n: **Thank you so much for reading! Those of you who have gifted me with your reviews, I am sincerely grateful. Those who are just reading, I really appreciate your time. *smile* I'm working to update as quickly as possible. There are five chapters and I don't want too much lag time between any two chapters, so I'm working to be at least one ahead. But your awesome comments encouraged me to rethink that plan, so I thought I'd post this now...and be encouraged to finish chapter 3 that much sooner.

I hope you continue to enjoy.

Quick shout-out to my good friend, **Thru****TerrysEyes**. Her sanity reads give me the shove over the ledge I tend to need on a regular basis. And she has made some very pretty art for this story (and others) that I'll be putting up on my LiveJournal at some point.

* * *

_We're all sentenced to solitary confinement inside our own skins, for life._

_~Tennessee Williams_

www

Sam could hear something ticking. Slowly, like a stove trying to light.

He couldn't tell what direction it was coming from at first; his whole focus was on his brother, boneless in his arms, sprawled across his lap. Rainwater dripped from the ends of Sam's hair and splashed on Dean's bare shoulder, running in a hesitant river along the slope of his collar bone to the purpling bruise forming quickly around an angry, red puncture wound at the base of his neck.

Someone took a breath. It wasn't Sam. He hadn't so much as exhaled since Dean went limp against him. His chest ached with the pressure of keeping the world at bay until he could register what had happened.

A glint of light caught his eye and Sam looked up to see a large syringe on the wood floor near the chair where Dean had been bound. It rocked slowly with latent motion, the sides of the plunger clicking rhythmically against the wood floor.

_There is a virus—created by a demon…they intend to inject it into Dean._

Sam couldn't move.

There had been times in his youth when too many choices yielded no action; he simply didn't know which way to go first. But that had faded somewhat with Stanford, and then further when he'd found his dad dead on the hospital floor. When Dean had been torn apart in front of him, indecision evaporated and left direction in its wake.

But then addiction came into his life. And angels. And one fucked up destiny.

Sam let his breath out slowly when Dean flinched. He'd been out for less than a minute, and Sam resisted the urge to shake his brother to consciousness. The bodies of the two demons he'd killed lay on the floor behind them, blood from the neck wounds spilling freely on the floor.

He could smell it.

He could practically _taste_ it. The salty, metallic tang…the slick slide to his belly…the rush as it surged through him. It was a hit that nothing else had ever matched.

Sam swallowed, carefully adjusting his grip on Dean's shoulder, keeping his back to the blood.

"We need to leave this place." Castiel's gruff, nearly-monotone voice grated across Sam's ears.

"Gimme just a damn minute, Cas, okay?" Sam snapped.

The woman who'd been the unwilling host to a demon lay to Sam's left, motionless, her face turned away. He knew from experience that she was going to have a helluva headache when she woke up. And that the feeling of filth coating her from the inside out would take a long, long time to wash away.

If it ever did.

Dean seemed to sigh a bit, his head rolling loosely, his forehead coming to rest on Sam's belly. Sam moved to lift Dean's face, thinking to try to rouse him, when with no more warning than a strangled groan, Dean suddenly pushed against Sam's body, thrusting himself one direction, Sam another. Dean crashed into the chair that had held him bound just minutes before, sending the furniture flying backwards into a darkened room.

Sam heard it clatter and bounce against the floor as he stared at Dean, trying to catch his breath.

"Stay 'way!" Dean all-but roared, his voice sounding like he'd been on a three-day bender. He held up a hand, not in warning, but in resistance, trying to keep the demons at bay. "Stay the fuck away from me!"

"Dean," Sam said softly, pulling his feet under him and balancing on his toes. "Hey, easy, man, it's me, okay?"

Dean was coiled tight; Sam knew that if he so much as touched his brother, he'd suffer the consequences. He'd seen Dean like this after some particularly horrific nightmares; his throat had carried bruises for several days.

Grappling for balance, Dean's arm stuttered and shifted along the wood floor until Sam saw his fingers touch a pile of clothes. His belly turned to ice when he saw that lying on top of the clothes was Dean's Beretta. If he hadn't seen the clip separated from the weapon, he might've damned the consequences and dove for his brother in that moment.

Sam felt movement nearby and resisted the urge to check where Castiel was. He didn't need the angel's well-intentioned, but often poorly-phrased, encouragement sending Dean over the edge.

Right now, it needed to be _them_.

"Dean," Sam repeated, watching as Dean's hand stayed up, stretched out, not even a tremor to betray the pain he had to be in judging from the marks on his face, neck, and wrists. "Look at me, okay?"

He kept his voice low, soft, even; talking a trapped animal out of taking his arm off at the shoulder.

Slowly, as if coming back to himself in increments, Dean lifted his face. Sam watched his eyes sweep over Raya's prone figure, then hit Sam. He winced as he saw the swollen skin framing Dean's left eye, the broken blood vessels surrounding the green iris with a painful-looking red stain.

"Sam?" Dean's voice cracked at the edge of his name, making Sam's gut tighten. His name had always been safe in Dean's mouth; it was the trigger that told him how close to the edge Dean really was—the way his brother said his name.

It only sounded like this when Dean had nothing left.

"Hey," Sam lifted his chin, still not reaching out to touch Dean, waiting for that arm to come down and give him access.

Dean swallowed, eyes moving to take in Castiel. Sam breathed out slowly as recognition smoothed the lines on Dean's face and his arm lowered. Sam scooted closer, putting Raya's prone figure and Castiel behind him with the other bodies, and closing the gap between himself and his brother.

With a helpless groan, Dean dropped to his rear, his knees tented, bloody arms draped across them.

"What the fuck, Sam?" His question leveled the tremor in his voice.

Sam felt his shoulders sag a bit. "So, turns out Kansas City was a bad idea."

Dean reached up and rubbed tentatively at the bruised puncture wound. "She stabbed me with something."

"She injected you with a virus," Castiel spoke up.

Sam looked over his shoulder. "Cas, maybe let's just—"

"Virus?" Dean pulled Sam's attention back. He already knew, Sam realized, glancing at the puncture wound. _They told him_. "How…how long?"

"Until what?" Sam asked.

"Until l go…_28 Days Later_?"

"It's not like that," Sam shook his head, shoving the clothes toward Dean. "Put your shirt on; I'll explain in a minute."

It bothered Sam that Dean did as he was told. His face held a stunned expression, his eyes landing on nothing. Sam pushed to his feet, turning to face Castiel.

"Can you go into the bedroom and get the rest of his stuff?" He glanced at Dean. "His boots, I guess?"

"What about the woman?" Castiel turned toward the bedroom.

Dean, now mostly clothed, stood and shoved the clip into his weapon, his face shifting into something more recognizable as _Dean_ when he tucked the gun into his back waistband.

"I got her." He moved toward Raya as if his legs were made of glass.

Sam ran a hand through his hair, ready to help Dean lift the woman to the couch. He was totally unprepared for her to launch upwards, grabbing a small .38 from the couch as she gained her feet, and point the barrel at his brother.

"Stay the hell away from me!"

In unison, Dean and Sam drew back, hands up.

"Easy, honey," Dean crooned, his voice level.

Sam darted his eyes between Dean and Raya, watching as Dean slid slowly forward, his bare feet soundless on the wood floor. Raya's hands were steady, the gun never leaving its target of Dean's chest.

"You don't want to do this," Dean told her.

"Hell I don't," she growled.

"Raya, you don't understand—"

"I don't _have to_ understand." She cocked the gun.

Sam went cold at that sound. "Hey," he chimed in, hoping to draw attention to himself and away from Dean. Raya didn't waver. "Listen, I know what you're feeling right now."

Dean slid forward a bit more. Raya didn't move. Sam had lost track of Castiel, but at the moment the angel's whereabouts were a minor concern; he needed to get that gun off his brother.

"You lost time," Sam continued, "and…and you feel like someone scooped something out of you."

Raya's eyes shifted from Dean to Sam and back, but she didn't lower the gun.

"You feel like you walked out of a twisted dream and everything feels…," Sam swallowed, "…dirty."

Raya's breath stuttered and Sam saw her index finger flex slightly on the trigger. He opened his mouth to try something else when Dean reached forward, lightning quick, and grabbed the gun, shoving his thumb behind the hammer so that it clicked on his flesh and bone.

"Ow!" He cried out, pulling the gun from Raya's hands.

Sam exhaled, but didn't lower his hands. "Why do we always cut these things so damn close?"

Castiel suddenly seemed to materialize behind Raya, a hand raised. Sam knew instantly what the angel intended to do.

"No!" He and Dean cried out together.

Castiel paused, looking confused.

"Cas, just wait," Dean pleaded as Raya buried her face in her hands.

Dean released the hammer on the gun and handed it to Sam, who set it on top of the TV. Putting his hands gently on Raya's arms, Dean guided her to sit on the couch, and then crouched in front of her, his hands on her knees.

"Raya."

"Just…please leave." Raya's voice was muffled inside her hands.

Dean closed his eyes for a moment, then steadied himself with a breath. "I need to know what you remember."

_Two days, Winchester._

Sam felt his breath rush out.

"Nothing." Raya dropped her hands from her face. "And I don't want to remember anything, either."

Sam saw tears had smudged her eye makeup and were cutting a track of reflected light down her cheeks. His heart panged. They had seen so much death—had both died themselves, in fact—and destruction that he sometimes forgot what it was like to really be afraid.

Fear was normal. Fear was _human_.

Raya's eyes tracked across Dean's face and Sam watched her chin tremble.

"Dammit," she sniffed, swiping at the tears with the back of her hands. She looked down, seeing Dean's bloody wrists and cursed again. "I used the zip ties on you?"

"Not _you_," Dean shook his head. "It was…a demon."

"A demon," she repeated dully.

"They were after something and…." A shudder moved through Dean's shoulders. "Do you remember anything about…the Eye of God?"

"They want the Eye of God?" Castiel spoke up, surprise evident in his voice.

Raya looked up at him, then past Dean to Sam. "Who are you? And what the hell are you doing in my house?"

"I'm an ang—"

"He's a friend," Dean interrupted Castiel. "And that's my brother, remember? They came to get me."

Raya took a breath, rubbing her face. "We need to bandage your wrists," she said. "And I gotta call this in…. I've got two dead bodies in my house and—"

"I will dispose of them," Castiel informed her.

"What?" Raya gaped at him. "You're not…_disposing_ of anything. I'm gonna be looking into this. No way people just break into my house and—"

Castiel reached past Dean and touched Raya lightly on the forehead. Without a sound, she melted into the couch.

"What the hell!" Dean surged to his feet in protest.

With startling speed, the blood drained from his face and he swayed. Sam stepped forward and gripped his brother's arm, holding him up.

"She will be fine," Castiel explained. "I will take care of her—and these two." He nodded toward the dead demons.

With Dean still wavering in his grip, Sam said, "_Really_ take care of her, Cas."

The angel looked slightly offended. "I have not fallen so far that I don't recognize innocence," he said, his eyes seeming to expose Sam's secrets and sins. They shifted to Dean. "Take care of him, Sam. He needs you." Castiel's voice seemed to drop an octave as he finished with, "And we all need him."

Sam glanced over at his brother and saw that Dean's eyes were trained on the empty syringe, his free hand gingerly touching the puncture wound hidden beneath his clothes.

"We'll meet you at the motel," Sam told the angel. "C'mon," he tugged lightly on Dean's arm.

"Boots." Dean reminded him.

"Oh, right," Sam nodded, reaching for the boots Castiel handed him. Once dressed, Dean seemed to have regrouped slightly and nodded his thanks to Castiel as he led the way through the door.

"Think she'll be okay?" His question was almost rhetorical in nature—seeking reassurance Sam couldn't possibly have.

"Cas'll make sure she's squared away," Sam replied as they stepped out into the rain. "But…I don't know if she'll ever be okay."

"Yeah," Dean sighed, sadly. "Yeah."

www

He let Sam drive.

Really, there wasn't much of a choice in the matter. His left eye was so swollen he could barely see out of it, his head felt like tiny men with chisels were carving intricate etchings on his brain, and every time he moved his fingers, the torn flesh on his wrists sang with resistance.

"We'll get you back to the motel, get you fixed up," Sam was saying as the wiper blades shoved bucketfuls of water from the windshield of the Impala.

Dean sat slumped in the passenger seat of his car, his head back, the heavy rhythm of the rain on the roof an echo of his sluggish heart.

_I want you to think about the taste of your favorite food…think about how it felt to touch this body…._

"Sam."

"Yeah?"

He couldn't see Sam's head pivot his way, but he knew his brother well enough to imagine Sam's worried eyes on him.

"Tell me about this virus."

There was a strange smell wafting up from the air vents. It didn't match the rain.

"Why don't we just get back to the motel fir—"

"You smell that?" Dean sat up straighter, frowning.

"What?"

"Smells like…grass."

"Grass? Like…like pot?" Sam glanced at his brother out of the corner of his eyes.

Dean shot him a look. "No, not _pot_. You friggin'…hippie. Grass. Like fresh-mown…_grass_."

Sam shook his head, turning into the motel parking lot. "I don't smell grass. Just…wet clothes."

"It's really strong." Dean shook his head, peering through the side window into the rain, seeking the source. "Reminds me of that time we…," he almost chuckled, but the sound choked off somewhere inside of him, "we ended up camped out in the middle of that empty field…and we drank until we both got sick. You remember that?"

Sam nodded, pulling to a stop. Dean dropped his hand on the door handle, frowning.

"Never mind, it's…it's gone now. Maybe I'm losing it."

"Let's just get inside, Dean." The weight in Sam's voice grabbed Dean by the chin and pulled his head around.

_Think about how much you love listening to your precious music. Think about seeing your brother…._

"I'm…not losing it, am I?"

Sam closed his eyes. Instead of answering, he opened the door, letting the weather in. Dean followed, blinking through the sheets of rain that separated the car from the motel room door. Sam paused long enough to unlock the motel room door, then led the way inside.

Dean wiped the water from his face, muffling the sound of the storm with the closed motel door. The smell of freshly-mown grass was gone but now there was something else…something sour. It turned his stomach.

"I'll get the first aid kit," Sam said, shucking his wet clothes as he moved toward the duffel bags sitting on the table. "How about you go dry off?"

Dean simply nodded. He was too distracted by the smell to argue. Besides, he was cold. He grabbed some dry jeans and boxers and went into the bathroom, dropping his wet clothes in a pile on the floor. The rain had washed most of the blood away, but the zip-ties had cut raw furrows into the skin on the back of his wrists.

As he reached for a towel, he caught a glimpse of the puncture wound, saw the dark purple of the bruise spilling from the base of his neck over his collarbone and starting to finger down one side of his chest.

"Well, that's pretty," he muttered to himself, then pulled on a dry pair of jeans, leaving the button fly open as he sniffed the towel, jerking it away from his face as the stench grew, gagging him.

"Dean?" Sam called from the outer room. "You okay?"

"Dude, what _is_ that?"

Sam appeared in the doorway, barefoot, dressed in dry jeans and a dark T-shirt, his wet hair leaving spots on the cotton. "What's what?"

"Seriously, you don't smell that?" Dean pushed the shower curtain aside, peering into the tub, his stomach tight at what he was afraid he might find.

It was empty.

"What's going on, man?"

"It's…." Dean moved the door to the side, peering behind it, searching, he realized for something…dead. "It's like…a body. A dead body." Dean turned in a full circle, catching his own reflection in the mirror. "Smells like we just dug up a grave."

Sam's hand was on his arm, a warm, heavy pressure of assurance and familiarity. Without a word, he tugged Dean toward him, out of the bathroom. Confused, aching, and more than a little pissed, Dean followed, sitting heavily on the bed.

"Talk," he demanded.

Sam threw him a gray Henley, then sat on a chair across from him.

"While you were with Raya," Sam began, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, eyes on the floor, "Cas showed up, demanding to know where you were. Said one of his brothers told him some demons had cooked up a virus and they were going to inject it in you."

"Why me?" Dean asked, pulling the Henley over his head, then gingerly touching the swollen, bruised skin around his left eye.

Sam shrugged. "'Cause you're Michael's vessel?"

"Why bother with a virus?" Dean's face fisted in frustration. "Seems like a waste of man power. Er…y'know…demon power."

Sam took a breath. "Cas said this virus would…shut down your senses."

_Now think about that all going away…._

Dean rubbed the bridge of his nose with the flat of his fingers, eyes closing as Raya's voice, tainted by a demon, slipped through his memory. The stench of rotting flesh had abated and he could smell her still imprinted on the palm of his hand. With sudden clarity, their moments of passion slammed into him with vivid force and he could feel her against him, her scent wrapping around him, her sigh echoing in his ears. He blinked rapidly as her dusky curves replaced Sam's face and he felt her fingers dig into his shoulders.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was worried, insistent.

Dean took a breath; he hadn't realized he'd been holding it.

"Yeah."

"You okay? You kinda checked out on me for a minute there."

Dean shook his head slowly. "Something weird's going on, Sam."

A cold hand slipped inside him, stroking his heart with fragile fingers.

"Weird like…."

Dean stood quickly, buttoning his fly lest the intense flash of a moment ago expose more than his fear. "Weird like some demon just shoved a needle the size of your leg into my neck and injected me with some kinda freaky virus. _That_ kind of weird."

He started to pace.

The room was too small. Sam was using too much air.

He needed to get out. Just walk away.

Drive—that was better. He could drive away. Just go somewhere else. Somewhere they wouldn't track his movements.

Where they wouldn't find him.

"Hey!"

Sam was suddenly in front of him, hands gripping his arms, halting what had apparently become very rapid movement. Dean stared at his brother in surprise, for a moment barely recognizing the set of Sam's jaw, the hardened edge around Sam's eyes.

Hell had changed both of them.

_When did you stop being my kid brother?_

"Just breathe, Dean." Sam's voice was low, even. "You need to breathe, okay?"

Dean nodded, his head bouncing loosely like a bobble-head. "I'm breathing."

Sam released him slowly and Dean leaned against the dresser, crossing his arms over his chest, then jerking them away from his body when the seeping wounds came in contact with the material of his shirt.

He didn't look directly at Sam. He didn't really want to look directly at anything. The lights in the room were doing funny things to his eyes, sending streaks of light across his vision.

He closed his eyes. "What else did Cas say?"

He heard Sam's sigh, a weighted, wary sound that spoke volumes more than his brother ever realized. Sam was always so earnest, so careful with his words. Where Dean just said whatever was on his mind, Sam took a moment to think about how the person he was speaking to would hear the words.

Which was why his words could cut so deep.

"He just said that he'd been told about this virus, that it would systematically shut down your senses until eventually…you suffocate."

"Well," Dean blinked his eyes open. The streaks were gone. "At least I have something to look forward to."

"We'll figure this out, Dean," Sam said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Dean looked at him, taking in the lines on Sam's face, the bow of his shoulders. His hair had gotten longer—which was saying something as Sam had never been a high-and-tight guy—and his clothes were fitting somewhat looser than they had before. The toll of their time apart coupled with the head-spinning reveal of their apparent destinies had worn on his brother.

"What was that you asked Raya about?"

Dean frowned. He'd been trying to think up a pithy epithet to lighten the mood or draw a half-grin from Sam before he fell face-first with exhaustion on the bed and slept away one of his two days.

"Huh?" He worked his tongue along the inside surface of his teeth; a sour trace of stale beer hung at the back of his mouth. He suddenly _ached_ all over. The kind of ache that came after he'd had his ass handed to him.

"You asked her something about an Eye of God?" Sam tilted his head quizzically.

Dean rubbed at his left shoulder. It had been dislocated more than once in the past and that same bone-deep pain suddenly had him slightly short of breath. "How the…the hell should I know? Sounds like something out of...mrrph…out of _Indiana Jones_."

He leaned forward, his gut on fire.

"Dean!"

Sam was up, standing close. But Dean was too busy gripping his belly and hoping the knives there made quick work of him so that he could pass the hell out already.

"What is it?"

"S-Something…stabbing me…."

Dean felt the weight of Sam's hands on his back, cupping his chin, lifting his face up. He couldn't open his eyes; the light was too bright, too much, and it was melting all over him. The taste of dirt filled his mouth, gagging him.

He heard Sam's voice, knew there were words attached, but there was suddenly too much noise in the room, filling the empty spaces with the driving beat of electric guitars, demanding drums, and rough-throated cries. The pain in his belly slipped free only to be replaced by cacophony such that he'd never heard before. Screaming, screeching, crying, begging…it was as if someone had turned the volume up on Hell.

And just as suddenly as it hit him, it was gone.

Gasping, Dean dared to slowly lift his eyes. He was on the floor, on his knees, Sam next to him, a hand across his back, fingers curling at his waist, another holding his hand in a vise-like grip.

"Dean?"

"Yeah," Dean gasped, turning to take in the fear leaping from Sam's eyes like a cliff diver. "Yeah, I'm…I'm okay."

"You're shaking."

Dean slowly released Sam's hand. "I'm okay," he repeated, trying to convince himself. He reached for the foot of the bed and pulled himself up. "That was…weird."

"The virus?"

Dean dragged the back of his hand across his upper lip as Sam stood, hands on hips, looking for an explanation.

"I thought you said…it was supposed to, uh," he glanced around the room for a bottle of water or a glass, "take away my senses?"

"That's what Cas said," Sam nodded, grabbing a plastic-wrapped glass and moving toward the bathroom faucet as if reading Dean's mind. "Systematically take them away."

"Well, I think he might've got his wires crossed." Dean worked to steady his breath, nodding his thanks as he took the glass and drank deeply. "That was like…senses on memory over-drive."

"We gotta figure out what we're dealing with." Sam ran a hand through his hair. His eyes dropped to Dean's wrists. "Need to clean those."

"Won't that be fun," Dean muttered, touching his bruised eye gently.

The room was blessedly quiet as Sam worked, efficiently cleaning the remaining blood from Dean's wrists, then wrapping the wounds with white gauze. Dean swallowed the pain pills Sam had set next to him and allowed his brother access to the places that hurt. The places Sam could see, in any case.

His body grew heavy, his eyes slipping closed for longer periods of time. The combination of alcohol, sex, and a beating was taking its toll.

_Not as young as I used to be._

"There," Sam declared, sitting back.

"I look like I should be on suicide watch," Dean grumbled.

The look Sam slipped his way said volumes about that statement.

"I'm calling Bobby."

"Dude, it's like," Dean shot a look at the digital clock between the beds, "three in the morning for Bobby."

"You've only got two days, Dean," Sam reminded him.

"I _know_ that, Sam," Dean snapped, slowly pushing himself back on the bed toward the headboard. "I just need…just a couple hours, man. That's all I'm saying."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "You think they'll pull you out of this, don't you?"

"Huh?" Dean looked up at his brother in surprise. "Who?"

"The angels," Sam said. "You think they'll save you."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Jesus, Sam."

"What? Why aren't you more freaked out about this!"

"I am!" Dean shouted back. "I'm fuckin' scared shitless! That what you want to hear?"

Sam audibly swallowed, looking down and away. "No," he said quietly.

Dean pressed two fingers to his throbbing eye. "I just…. I'm beat, man."

There was complete quiet in the room for a moment.

"You want a cold pack for your eye?"

"We got one?"

"Yeah," Sam's voice faded slightly as he turned away. "I stocked up while I was still working at the bar."

"Thanks," Dean sighed, letting his body slip sideways until the pillows cradled him. He closed his eyes, feeling the cooling pack gently set on his bruised face. "Just…coupla hours."

"Okay, Dean," Sam sighed.

It was just that easy. Sam said it was okay, consciousness departed.

For what felt like a delicious eternity, all was black, quiet, cool. The part of Dean's brain that never really shut off registered the healing peace his body needed.

But he felt it coming. Felt the darkness receding, but not truly go anywhere. It was so familiar, this pattern. It was every night, to varying degrees.

He never truly left Hell. Castiel may have pulled him free, but it waited for him. In places he couldn't escape.

He smelled it.

Rot. Filth. Stagnant water. Death. He'd expected sulfur—but that was the one thing Hell hadn't smelled like. He imagined that scent to be the culminated result of blending the sewer of Hell with the freedom of life.

At first he'd been cold.

The phrase 'bone chilling' really didn't do the feeling justice. He'd shattered his own arm simply flinching. He'd broken off his fingers, disintegrated his nose. And the pain had overwhelmed him. Fire through ice. He'd always come back from the emptiness, brought back for their entertainment, for his punishment.

He'd paid in pain and blood for Sam to live.

When they cut him, he'd been able to scream loud enough that everything else had been blocked—every memory, every hope, every wish. There was only _now_ and _pain_.

Then they took away his mouth. Removed it completely, as if it never was.

It was when they stopped cutting him that it truly _hurt_. Because they'd leave him. Alone. For days. Bleeding out slowly, the only sounds those of other souls screaming in pain, laughing in madness, or weeping with regret.

And then there were the skins.

He'd died quickly when they began to skin him. But each time he opened his eyes, each time they brought him back, he was shown evidence of their success. Stretched on the walls around him, like trophies, were tortured, empty images of himself.

Color was leeched and then infused into his surroundings. The absence of it drained his fight; the over-abundance of it fed his frenzy. But the one thing he could always see—no matter if it was a gray day or not—was his own blood. It was everywhere, permeating everything.

He had coped, slowly going mad, welcoming the insanity, telling them to fuck off, keeping the pain close, his one companion.

Until the boy.

It was inconceivable to him that a child should be in Hell. His compass spun, his resolve crumbled. The boy—could have been Sam's twin—stood before him, eyes empty, dead, uncaring, and began to cut. But not Dean. He hadn't touched Dean.

He'd cut himself.

A voice whispered that it would stop. It would all stop if he wanted it to.

And he'd said _yes_.

www

"Unnnffff!"

"Hey, hey, easy!"

Sam had heard the tell-tale signs of the nightmare. He knew when Hell worked to reclaim his brother. No matter how often Dean denied it, no matter how much he drank, there were sounds he'd make when gripped in the throes of those dreams that he'd never allow to escape if he'd had any control.

Moving to the edge of his brother's bed, Sam had started to lean down, shake Dean awake, when a sound like a trapped, injured animal emitted from Dean's throat and Sam drew back, his skin puckering with horror.

He didn't want to know what had made Dean utter that sound. He didn't _ever_ want to know.

When Dean shot upright with a strangled cry, Sam dropped down beside him.

"You're okay, Dean. Hey! Hey, you're okay."

Dean turned his wounded eyes toward him, the bruised one kicking Sam in the gut. He waited, holding his brother's gaze, breathing slowly until Dean's frenzied rhythm matched his once more.

"You with me?" Sam asked quietly.

"She was there," Dean said, his voice not really his own. It was too raw, too rough. The cocky control that gave Dean an edge over the bad guys was still waiting to be remembered.

"Who?"

"Raya," Dean replied, rubbing his forehead. "No, not Raya…the demon."

"The demon that possessed Raya?" Sam clarified, his brow bowed as he tried to follow Dean's path.

"Yeah," Dean swallowed. "She was…there."

"Where, there?" Sam asked. The light bulb of realization nearly gave him a migraine. "In Hell? You met her before?"

Dean nodded. "She was...I, uh…on the rack, I…."

Sam put a hand on Dean's shoulder, sparing him. "I got it."

"She said she killed the guy who gave it to me," Dean said, pulling his knees up and resting his head in the palms of his hands.

"Gave what to you?"

Dean shot him a _try to keep up_ look. "The Eye of God."

"Somebody gave it to you?"

"According to this demon." Dean's voice was muffled as he hung his head, talking toward the mattress.

"Well," Sam sighed, standing up. "That would be something, seeing as how it doesn't really exist."

Dean looked up at him, his expression coupled with the sleep-mussed hair making him look all of twelve. "What do you mean?"

Sam darted his eyes to the side. "The storm knocked out the wireless, so I, uh…called Bobby. We think we might've figured out what they're talking about."

Groaning, Dean moved to the edge of the bed and rested his elbows on his knees. "I'm out of it for a little while and everybody gets delusions of grandeur."

Sam couldn't help but huff an abbreviated laugh. Leave it to his brother to quote a movie in the middle of mayhem.

"Bobby wasn't pissed that you called him at three in the morning?"

Sam shrugged. "I didn't ask."

"Nice." Dean rolled his neck. "Okay, so…how does this thing _not _exist?"

"Well," Sam hedged, pulling out a pad of yellow, lined paper he'd taken notes on as he talked to Bobby. "There _is_ such a thing as the Eye of God—it's a religious symbol. It's also what some people called the Helix Nebula which really isn't anything more than a dying star and a trillion-mile long tunnel of glowing gasses."

Dean turned his head sideways, resting it on his upturned hand, his bruised face puffy from nightmares. "How 'bout you dial it down for those of us who didn't watch every episode of _Star Trek_?"

"Okay, so," Sam bounced his head slightly, conceding the fact that it was good Dean had connected even this much, "it's early Christian. Masons use it in some of their symbols. Supposed to represent an omnipresent God, or an all-seeing God."

"So…what's a demon want with it?" Dean frowned, rubbing distractedly at his nose, then straightening his spine. Sam heard it crack all the way down.

"Turns out there's this ancient…rumor, or whatever, of an amulet-type-thing with the Eye of God on it that will protect the wearer from…well, anything."

"Amulet?" Dean said, standing, a look of confusion etched deeper on his face than his question warranted. Sam felt himself tense as he watched his brother move to their duffel bags. "What's with amulets being…_meaningful_ all of a sudden?"

Sam watched as Dean lifted a T-shirt and sniffed it, then reached in the bag for something else.

"I don't know, but the fact is, this amulet is nothing more than a pretty piece of jewelry. The rumor is false."

"Wonder if the same is true about my God-beacon," Dean muttered, picking up his Colt 1911 and sniffing the slide, then the chamber.

"What the hell are you doing, man?" Sam finally asked.

Dean didn't answer. Instead, he turned and made his way to the bathroom, staggering slightly. As Sam watched, Dean picked up a bar of soap and pressed it close to his face, then tossed it over his shoulder. Next, he twisted off the shampoo lid, sniffed it, then dropped it onto the floor of the bathtub.

"Dean?"

Returning to the duffel, Dean dug out his flask, removed the cap and sniffed it. Before Sam could say anything, he took a long pull, then lowered it, gasping slightly.

Realization sank in. "Oh, God," Sam said softly.

"I can't smell it," Dean said. "I mean…it still tastes like…but…I can't smell it. I can't…," he cast about the room, his eyes searching, seeking, landing on nothing. "I can't smell anything. Gun oil, gun powder, sweat, soap…."

"Okay, it's okay." Sam stood up, rattled by the panic in Dean's voice.

"How is this okay?" Dean turned on him, his eyes hot. "How is this even in the remote vicinity of _okay_?"

"We'll figure this out, Dean! We always figure it out."

Dean threw the flask across the room where it crashed into the wall, tearing the wallpaper, and sliding to the ground with a wet-sounding slosh.

"What kind of goddamned fairy tale are you living in, man?" Dean shouted. "We're not super heroes. We _don't _always figure it out."

"We _will_ this time," Sam yelled back, needing Dean to believe him so that he'd believe it himself. "We just—"

"Just _what_?" Dean snapped. "Just gotta find an amulet that's made up so that we can get it to a demon that I fucking _took apart_ and hope she wasn't lying about an antidote?"

"Wait, what? Antidote?" Sam grabbed Dean's arm, stopping him from beginning his frenetic pacing maneuver again. "There's an antidote?"

"She said the only way I'd get it is if I brought her the Eye of God which I obviously can't do since the damn thing doesn't exist so I guess I just fade out slowly until—"

"Stop!" Sam shouted, hands up. "Just…just stop. Let me think a second."

"You better hurry the hell up," Dean told him.

"Why?" Sam frowned.

"'Cause I can't _smell_ anything Sam. How fast does this thing work, anyway?"

"I don't know! Cas didn't know, either. But if she said two days—"

"Son of a bitch." Dean rubbed his face, then brought his hands away quickly, staring at them. "This is just…I can't even smell…_me_."

"You've had a cold before," Sam said, distractedly, his brain working to find connections in a hedge maze of possibilities. "Think of it like that."

"_You_ think of it like that, smartass," Dean countered. "It's not like I can't breathe through my nose. It's not like having a cold. It's like…nothing…," he touched the duffel bag, the table, his chest, the edge of the bed, Sam's arm, "_nothing_ is here. Nothing."

Sam suddenly recalled Dean's instant memory of their spontaneous campout—how the smell of grass had reminded him of that night. Sam had always thought Jessica smelled like lilies. Each time that scent caught his attention, he'd see her smile, that half-quirk of her lips, the way she'd look up at him through her lashes with eyes that held promises.

If he couldn't smell lilies…would he forget Jessica?

"Sorry," Sam said, genuinely contrite. "I'm sorry."

Dean sat heavily on a chair next to the duffel-covered table. "'S okay," he muttered. They were quiet for a minute. "Least this way…I don't have to smell _you_ every time you eat a burrito."

Sam pulled a face at him. "Whatever."

"Dude, you're…you're lethal."

"Okay, Mr. Silver Lining," Sam muttered, flipping through the pages of notes he'd taken while Dean slept. "Let's break this down. If this amulet thing doesn't exist, then why does Raya—"

"The demon," Dean corrected. "Only reason Raya's involved is because I wanted to get laid."

"Fair enough," Sam nodded, choosing his words carefully. "Why does this demon think some guy she apparently killed gave it to you?"

Dean sighed, rubbing his forehead. "What does it look like again?"

Sam showed him his crude sketch of a triangle with a single eye in the middle, beams of light emanating from all sides. He watched as Dean's eyes seemed to practically fold inward, searching the endless database of his mind.

Dean's memory was like flypaper; Sam had learned when he was quite young that there wasn't much his brother didn't remember. He simply chose what to apply to any given situation.

"Okay, there was this one job," Dean began, sitting back, pushing the sleeves of his gray Henley up to his elbows, his eyes lost. "Dad was…who the hell knows where. With Adam, maybe," Dean flicked a glance to Sam and the flinch caught in that look was obvious only to a brother who echoed the sentiment. "You were at Stanford. My friend Richie—remember him?"

"Unfortunately," Sam replied, thinking of the man's demise at the hands of demon lovers. He chose to skim over the recollection of killing a female demon Dean had managed to find some kind of weird, cosmic connection to.

"He had this…vengeful spirit thing. House in Boston. It was a two-person job and I didn't have anything else going on." Dean's shrug was nonchalant, but there was something buried in his tone that had Sam snaking a hand over his belly and pressing back an ache. "There was this old guy…it was an easy job, really. With the two of us."

There was a quick glance before Dean continued, but in that glance Sam heard so much and felt even more. Phrases Dean had never expressed, but that Sam had understood. Guilt suddenly perched at the back of his throat, acid burning through him and threatening to choke him if he tried to speak.

He'd left his brother so many times. He'd run away at least twice in their youth, simply needing, he thought, an escape. A breath. A moment that was just his.

Stanford was the greatest escape, the one he knew Dean always looked to.

But there were others—times when he'd left Dean while his brother slept. Times when he turned to a demon for help or solace rather than face the man who'd sold his soul so that he could live. And a time just weeks ago when shame and insecurity had him retreating, tucking himself away in the false security of solitude.

"Sorry I wasn't there," Sam said suddenly.

Dean looked at him, surprised. "You were at school, man."

That's all that mattered to Dean, Sam realized. Sam had been okay, had been living his life. It didn't matter that Dean had been alone. But it should have. And it did now.

"Still." Sam lifted a shoulder.

"Anyway, this old guy," Dean continued, sniffing, pausing, then looking away, "he gave me and Richie these trinkets as payment. I'm pretty sure mine was a triangle."

"Where'd you last see it?"

Dean looked at the floor. "The Impala."

"Great! Let's just—"

"Before the accident."

_The accident,_ Sam thought.

The semi-truck that had almost erased his family and the only home he'd ever known. Dean had practically turned himself inside out putting her back together, trying desperately to seal up a hole that their father's death had drilled into both of them.

"Oh," Sam said softly. "Think it's at Bobby's?"

Dean closed his eyes, dropping his head back. "Maybe. Somewhere. In two tons of junk."

Sam rubbed his lip. Asking Bobby to search through his junkyard for an amulet that may or may not be there—hampered by his wheelchair—didn't seem like a very viable option.

_Besides…if it doesn't actually work then…._

"So, let's give them a ringer," Sam shrugged.

Dean looked at him out of the corner of his eyes. "A ringer."

"There's gotta be some kind of…magic shop or store for weird antiquities here, right?" Sam opened his laptop.

"We're in Kansas, Sam," Dean reminded him. "We're more likely to find a…religious—"

"Bookstore," Sam finished, slapping the laptop and its dead Internet connection closed, then moving to the dresser, pulling open drawers. "Or some place with religious artifacts. You think?"

As if channeling in on Sam's enthusiasm, Dean stood. "Worth a shot, I guess."

"Where's the damn phonebook?" Sam groused, standing up and catching sight of Dean in the mirror.

For one moment neither of them moved. The contrast of Sam's proximity and his brother's distance from the mirror gave the illusion that Dean was fading, retreating.

"We'll figure this out," Sam told Dean's reflection.

Dean lifted his chin, his face a mask, eyes giving away nothing. "Well, if we don't," he lifted a shoulder, "guess those angels are going to have to step in…or find themselves a new vessel for their grudge match."

Sam felt his lip curl in disgust, not really liking the tight feeling he got in his chest when Dean brought up angels, then turned to the nightstand between the beds. "Ah-ha! Phonebook."

He thumbed through the book, looking under different categories until he found what he was looking for.

"Call them first," Dean instructed. "Make sure they have something like what we need."

Sam glanced at the clock. "It's eight in the morning—think they're open?"

Dean simply shrugged. His expression remained impassive, his movements minimal. Watching him with worry, Sam dialed the local number, frowning when he got a recording.

"Don't open for an hour."

"So, we've got time for breakfast." Dean lifted his chin and moved around Sam to get his boots.

"You want…I don't know…a shower or something?"

"I'm clean enough," Dean muttered, pulling the laces tight, then standing up and grabbing his blue canvas jacket.

He hadn't worn the leather jacket in weeks, Sam had noticed. Not since Sam came back.

"Still raining?" Sam asked as he mimicked his brother and slipped a weapon into his waistband, sliding the demon-killing knife into its make-shift holster.

"Yeah," Dean sighed as he opened the door, then paused, his body rigid.

"What is it?" Sam asked, stalled behind him.

Dean was completely still, his quiet unnerving. Sam was about to touch his shoulder when Dean spoke up.

"I can't smell the rain."

Sam knew there was nothing he could say. He stood still, waiting, aching. His skin felt stretched too tight. If he breathed too loud, they would shatter.

After a moment, Dean seemed to pull himself together. "Let's do this."

www

"Pie? For breakfast?" Sam questioned, the look on his face clearly disapproving.

"It's always time for pie," Dean countered, tossing a grin up at the sleepy-looking waitress. It was just the right amount of charm to drag a smile from her weary lips, though he didn't miss the way her eyes traced the path of his bruises, a pucker of worry folding her brow when she saw his bandaged wrists.

"You got it, Sugar," she nodded.

"So, assuming we get a ringer…then what?" Sam asked when the waitress left. "Any idea how we contact this demon?"

Dean quirked his eyebrows. "Dunno. Telegram?"

"I'm serious, Dean," Sam pouted as the waitress delivered his orange juice and Dean's coffee. "Giving us two days and then bailing wasn't the best plan."

"You forget what we're dealing with?" Dean pointed with the flat of his hand between Sam and the empty space next to him. "Demon, Sam. Sam, demon."

"Smart ass," Sam grumbled.

Dean sipped his coffee, wanting the flavor to settle on his tongue for a moment before swallowing. He _needed_ this right now. More than his next breath.

"She'll probably find us. They usually do." Another sip of coffee and he saw his grimace reflected in Sam's eyes. He'd had better; it tasted like…dirt. "If not…well, it's not like we haven't summoned demons before, y'know."

"What if we can't find it?" Sam asked, digging into the eggs set in front of him. "Got a Plan B?"

"Summon her, trap her, beat the fuckin' antidote out of her." He cut the end of the pie with the side of his fork.

"That should be Plan A," Sam pointed out.

Dean took a bite of his pie, frowning. They'd definitely picked the wrong diner; rather than exploding with flavor on his tongue, the mixture of crust and fruit was flat, tasteless. He chewed it anyway.

"Wonder where Cas is," Sam asked suddenly. "I, uh…kinda expected him to be back here watching you like a hawk."

Pushing his pie away after two bites, Dean looked at his brother. "Why?"

"He was plenty freaked out about finding you," Sam shrugged. "He's invested a lot in you, y'know?"

"I guess," Dean looked down at his cup of coffee, watching the vibrations from his grip ripple through the dark liquid. He knew it would taste like dirt—if it tasted like anything. He wasn't ready to accept another loss, so he drank.

"You _guess_? He went to Hell and brought you out, Dean," Sam reminded him needlessly.

A raw scream tore through Dean's mind and it was all he could do to not flinch. "You actually think that's something I'm gonna forget?"

"Well, no," Sam relented, bowed by the unexpected fervor in Dean's tone.

"I know what he did then; I know what he's doing now. Practically cut off his own damn wings, the bastard," Dean grumbled, not wanting to think about Castiel's sacrifice, his willingness to back Dean's fight, his belief that God was out there, that they could win this if they found Him.

Sam was quiet for a moment, finishing his breakfast. "Does he really have wings?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Dude. He's an angel."

"We've never seen them, though."

"I have."

Sam snapped his head up. "You have?"

"First time I met him," Dean told him, simply holding the coffee cup now. "They're like…shadows. Big mothers, too."

"Huh." Sam nodded, pushing his empty plate away. "Guess it's just…easy to forget he's not one of us sometimes."

Dean's smile was reluctant. "Well, he does lack our keen fashion sense."

"I don't know," Sam's smile echoed his, "I've been thinking about getting a trench coat. Only black—"

"Like Mulder's," Dean finished for him, his smirk covering the rising panic that sought to send him running. He glanced down at his watch. "You ready to hit this religious store?"

"I can't believe it's nine in the morning," Sam commented, looking over Dean's shoulder. "This storm makes it look like night out there."

"Nothing like a Midwest thunderstorm," Dean sighed, standing grabbing his coat, then leading the way out. "'Course…it would be nice to dry out once in awhile."

"No kidding," Sam groused as the rain quickly plastered his long hair to his scalp.

Dean's breath was rain soaked as he jogged over to the antique store, his heart in his throat, the memory of the taste of dirt in his mouth.

_Here goes nothing._

www

"Plan B is still an option, y'know," Sam muttered as Dean plowed the heavy car down the rain-slicked road. "It was a long-shot that they'd have something."

"I know, Sam."

Nothing in the antique store came close to looking like the Eye of God, and the owners didn't know of any other shops nearby. After calling a half-dozen other stores they found listed in the phonebook and getting nowhere, Sam had suggested they keep looking, try anyway, but Dean's tight face and tired eyes had convinced him to just return to the motel and regroup.

Sam squirmed slightly in his seat. He was wet, cold, but the heater was up full-blast and he hadn't slept in over twenty-four hours. His eyelids grew increasingly heavy.

"We can still get that antidote, Dean."

They pulled into the motel lot and Dean shoved the gear into park, sinking back against the seat.

"What is it?" Sam asked, the air around him seeming to grow dense, almost impenetrable with dread.

"You remember back in Rivergrove…when we thought you had the Croatoan virus…and everyone wanted one of us to put a bullet in you?"

Sam swallowed, shaken by Dean's wording. "Yeah," he whispered.

"I thought…I thought that was the worse I could feel. Right there. In that moment." He lifted his eyes to peer through the windshield as the rain began to slightly abate. "But…in this really weird way…it was kinda like a weight off."

"What was?"

"Locking us in that room. The world on the other side. We'd go out together." Dean's voice was below a whisper, but Sam took in every word.

"Dean—"

"I was so stupid," Dean shook his head slowly. "I had no idea how much worse…. I thought we'd had rough times, but…Hell kinda shifts your perspective, I guess."

"And angels," Sam chimed in quietly.

Dean huffed. "Angels."

Sam looked down at his hands. For a long moment the only sound was the slowing thrum of the rain on the Impala's roof.

"Y'know what the odds are that this demon would find you? Here, now?" Sam said softly. "It's like playing…roulette. They had to have been looking for us for awhile, y'know? If we hadn't come back here…."

"They'd have figured out another way," Dean sighed. "She wants this Eye of God thing as protection from…something. She would have found me even if we'd've gone to…Amsterdam."

"You think? I mean maybe it was just dumb luck."

"I remember her, Sam."

"The demon, you mean?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "She wasn't…innocent. I mean…well, you know what I mean. She'd killed someone. And she'd tried to bargain her way out."

"Crossroads deal?"

Dean rubbed his eyebrow. "Maybe."

"You can tell me, Dean," Sam said quietly. "You don't…it doesn't have to stay buried."

"Yeah," Dean said in a dead voice. He opened the door. "It does."

Sam followed his brother into the motel room, then paused, watching as Dean stood at the foot of the bed, staring at the flowered comforter. Somehow they'd reached a place where the fear of death matched the fear of life.

Dean had a point: the angels might step in. But if they didn't—or until they did—Dean's life was being slowly siphoned away from him. Again.

_I'm so goddamn tired of getting the short end of the stick_.

"Get some rest," Dean said suddenly.

"What?"

"You're dead on your feet, man," Dean said.

Sam hadn't realized that Dean had been looking back at him, so inward was his gaze. He dragged his eyes away from Dean's face to look longingly at the bed.

"But you've only got—"

"Hey," Dean put a hand on Sam's shoulder, his eyes warm. Sam looked at his brother's hand, taking a moment to register that it had been awhile since Dean had touched him out of camaraderie.

It used to be so natural—a squeeze of reassurance, a teasing smack to the back of the head. They'd lost that rhythm along the way. Sam wanted it back.

"Plan B is gonna take both our A games. You're tired. Get some rest."

"What about you?" Sam frowned, not wanting to be the only one to concede even a temporary defeat.

"My turn to keep watch," Dean replied, eyes flicking to Sam's laptop, then back, his only concession to the fact that Sam had allowed him his couple of hours.

Sighing, Sam nodded, sinking down onto the bed. Dean pushed at his shoulder and huffed out a laugh when Sam let his body give with the motion, flopping backwards. He gave no further sign that he was ready to crawl up toward the pillows.

"You're too big for me to put you to bed," Dean commented dryly, kicking gently at Sam's leg. "Get on up there before I change my mind."

Sam yawned loudly as Dean moved to sit down on one of the chairs. "Yeah, okay."

Kicking off his boots, Sam didn't bother undressing further, knowing that they'd have to get ready to summon the demon shortly. He shifted until he could grab a pillow. Peering through sleep-narrowed eyes at his brother's bruised face, Sam called Dean's name.

"Yeah?"

"You really think we…y'know…keep each other human?" He wasn't sure where the question had come from, but it was suddenly vitally important to know Dean's answer.

Dean leaned forward, his elbows braced on his knees, staring at the palms of his hands. "I think it kinda depends on how we define being human."

Sam frowned. He hadn't expected that.

"The way I define it," Dean continued, lifting his eyes to meet Sam's, "yeah. You keep me here, Sam. You keep me in the fight. Remind me that there's more to all of this then what some angels say there is."

_The way I define it..._ Sam lifted his head slightly, wondering at that. "What about—"

"Hey," Dean held up a hand, palm out, silencing Sam. "No talking. Sleep. I'll wake you up in a couple hours and we can kick some demon ass."

Sam nodded, letting his head sink into the pillow, blocking out the sudden influx of questions.

www

Dean waited until Sam's breathing changed, became heavy, languid, dragging air through his parted lips and across his teeth. When he was sure his brother was asleep, he stood, checking to make sure his gun was secure in his waistband, and then slipped quickly outside.

The rain had slowed to barely a sprinkle, but water ran in a virtual river down the black-topped parking lot. Dean frowned, watching it catch against the Impala's tires in little whitecaps, then glide down the lot to the churning mud of what might've been a riverbank—or just the edge of a grass lot.

"If'n yer headin' out," came voice to his left, "y'might wanta wait a bit 'till they sandbag."

Dean looked over to see a man about his age dressed in khaki coveralls, a Royals baseball cap turned backwards, with a patch of beard tucked beneath his lip. Just down from their room, he was leaning against the pop machines, safe in a protected alcove, dry from even the little rain that still fell.

Looking back over his shoulder at the curtained window that led to where Sam now slept, Dean sighed. This was his burden; the demon was after _him_. It had nothing to do with Sam. It wasn't related to their destinies to become angelic vessels. It wasn't about Armageddon or releasing Lucifer from his cage. It was a simple case of revenge and he didn't want Sam messed up in it any more than he already was.

But…Plan B without his brother's help at this point would be a suicide mission.

_I can't do that to Sam…not now. _

"What are they sandbagging?" Dean asked, making his way over to the man. A 1980's-era boom box was on the floor neat the candy vending machine, an old Lynryd Skynyrd song slipping softly from the speakers.

"Used to be a crick 'fore all this here rain," the man nodded to their right, past the end of the parking lot. "Thinkin' I might build me an Ark."

Dean chuckled appreciatively. "You work here?"

The man reached into a front pocket of his coveralls and pulled out a pack of Camels, tapping one cigarette free and slipping the butt between thin lips. "Yep. Been the maintenance man since high school. You want?"

He offered the pack to Dean. For a moment, Dean paused, his instinct to wave off the cigarettes. And then something shifted. He found himself nodding, and reaching, grabbed one and balanced it at the corner of his mouth, his lips pushed slightly out.

"Name's J.R.," the maintenance man said, his mouth tight as he held the cigarette still and flicked a Bic lighter at the end. He pulled in puff, then another, before leaning over and lighting Dean's.

"Dean."

He'd smoked several times in the past—usually when nose-deep in alcohol, or when working someone to get information he needed—but it had never taken. It was too complicated and costly a habit to have when they lived the life of a gypsy and all too often depended on fake credit cards for a bed or a meal.

Plus, it tasted like shit. He'd never enjoyed the burn in his throat, the clogging, fogged-up feeling of his lungs, the slightly off-kilter way the world looked as the nicotine hit his system.

But none of that mattered now.

Not when he was hungry to taste _anything_…even the tang of a filtered cigarette.

He pulled in a drag, let the smoke fill his lungs, the weight of it heavy at the back of his mouth, then breathed it out with only a rough cough. One more drag and he pulled the cigarette from his lips with the tip of his fingers and thumb, cupping the burning ember in the palm of his hand to protect it from the rain.

Darting his tongue out, he rid his lips of the paper lingering there, trying to temper the rising panic that he'd not tasted the smoke. There'd been nothing, not even the sensation of ash on his tongue.

It wasn't even numb.

It just simply…wasn't.

"So, where ya goin', Dean?"

"Nowhere," he muttered, sagging back against the wall. "I'm not going anywhere, man."

J.R. suddenly leaned over, turning the volume up on the boom box as sad chords from a lone acoustic guitar melded with the returning rain.

"'At's the stuff, right there," J.R. nodded, his eyes half-closed as he continued to smoke. "The man in black."

"Johnny Cash?" Dean guessed.

"You know it."

"_I hurt myself today to see if I still feel. I focus on the pain, the only thing that's real."_

Dean swallowed, narrowing his burning eyes against the twisting tendrils of smoke that curled up from his lips as he breathed out once more.

"Dude sounds like he's really _lived_, y'know?" J.R. commented as the age-laden voice lamented his choices in life.

"Yeah," Dean sighed out a breath of smoke, wishing suddenly for the flask he'd thrown across the room.

Would he _remember _the taste of whiskey? What about food? He ran his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip. Would he remember what a woman tasted like—how there was always the quick bite of whatever had last touched her lips before him and then nothing but flesh and warmth and a distinct sweetness that was unique to each woman?

"_What have I become? My sweetest friend. Everyone I know goes away in the end."_

If he couldn't smell anything, couldn't taste anything, how soon before everything else disappeared…before he was vacant, hollow?

How soon before he couldn't feel the grip and kick of his weapon, the rumble of his car beneath his legs?

How soon until he was nothing more than a shell of someone who had once been human?

It had been his worst fear in Hell. It had chased him as he watched his brother succumb to addiction before his eyes. It had gripped him as he'd let Sam walk away from hunting, from him. What if he lost the one thing that made him human?

"_And you could have it all. My empire of dirt. I will let you down. I will make you hurt."_

"…been through the shit," J.R. was saying.

"What?" Dean looked over at the other man, realizing his cigarette had almost burned down to the filter. He bounced his thumb on the end, dislodging the ash. "What was that?"

"Said ya look like y'been through the shit," J.R. indicated to Dean's bruised eye. "Tangle with the wrong woman 'er somthin'?"

Dean lifted an eyebrow at the irony and glanced away. "You might say that."

The rain began to increase, splashing up toward them in a wave of sound from behind the motel, across the roof, to the lot still flowing with water. J.R. cursed his luck just as Sam pulled the door of their motel room open, poking his head and shoulders out in a panic.

"Dean!"

"I'm right here," Dean called his brother's attention, turning his back to J.R.

"What the hell are you doing out here?" Sam demanded, straddling the doorway, rain soaking his hair and plastering his T-shirt to his chest in moments. Dean flicked his butt into the current of water bouncing around the wheels of the Impala. "Are you…smoking?"

Dean lifted his chin, challenging Sam's incredulity. "Worried it's gonna shorten my oh-so-rich-and-wonderful life, Sam?"

He watched Sam square his shoulders, weighing his reply. "No…just haven't seen you do that since we were kids."

Dean shrugged, moving into the rain from the safety of the vending machine alcove. "Guess I just…y'know, wanted to see—"

"Dean!"

This time Sam's cry was a warning. Dean caught the look of shock on Sam's face two seconds before he sensed an approach from the rear.

"What the hell—"

Turning quickly, he instinctively lifted his hands before J.R. slammed into him, grappling for dominance in an awkward, painful embrace.

"I have been looking for you," J.R. growled, his articulation strangely perfect.

Dean shoved his fist into the other man's gut twice, surprised when J.R. didn't crumble away despite how his belly gave with the impact. Dean was skidding backwards, trying to force space between himself and his attacker. J.R.'s hand reached up and closed around Dean's throat, squeezing.

Slipping, his boots losing traction against the wet cement, Dean registered a smeared image of Sam standing in the rain, his arm raised, gripping the demon-killing knife. It took until that moment for Dean to register that the man he fought was no longer a _man_ at all. He forced a hand up, clawing at J.R.'s eyes. The demon inside howled, gripping the back of Dean's neck and pulling at him, each one fighting desperately to gain leverage.

Dean broke loose, crashing his fist against the other man's skull, cursing when J.R. caught his arm on the back-swing and twisted it roughly behind Dean's back, pushing him face-first toward the side of the building, next to their motel room window.

Rain hammered down, nearly drowning out Sam's scream of, "Dean!"

As the side of the motel rushed up to meet him, Dean used his momentum and scrambled up the wall, his boots hitting the siding in quick succession as he pressed his back against J.R.'s front. The leverage allowed him to flip up and over the other man, freeing himself.

"Don't kill him! Not yet!" Dean bellowed to his brother, rushing the now black-eyed maintenance man and body-slamming him through the large, rectangular window.

In a crash of double-paned glass and flimsy, wooden table and chairs, Dean and J.R. entered the motel room, scattering duffel bags and Sam's laptop and bringing the Midwest storm of the century in with them. Dean slammed his fist into the demon's jaw, flying backwards into the pile of glass when J.R. returned the favor.

The gun tucked into his waistband bruised his spine with the impact and Dean twisted, reaching, pulling the weapon free, aiming it, despite the fact that he knew firing it was basically a useless gesture. J.R.'s demon struck Dean's arm, sending the gun flying. Kicking out, Dean's boot hit J.R.'s crotch with enough force that the human would have been incapacitated. The demon, however, simply tumbled backwards, then surged once more to its feet.

"Hold him! Hold him off!"

In a blur of motion, Dean registered Sam scrambling past them, climbing onto the nearest bed, and reaching above his head with the razor-sharp tip of the demon-killing knife he'd been wielding outside.

Blinking water from his lashes and shaking in his head as the ringing in his ears increased, Dean hollered, "Whatever you're doing do it fast!"

J.R.'s demon roared as he dove once more for Dean, this time barely touching him as he slammed Dean against the wall with brute, demonic-force, then dragged him down and through the broken glass and furniture.

"Hang on, Dean!" Sam's voice sounded as if it were coming from miles away, the roar of the storm enough to literally drown out anything but the pressure building in Dean's chest and head as the demon slammed him once more against the glass-covered floor.

"Hurry!" Dean rasped as he swept his leg toward the demon's precarious balance and knocked it off its feet.

The demon matched Dean's speed rising to its feet.

"Now!" Sam yelled, jumping down and shoving the bed aside. "Push him back!"

With all that remained of his strength, Dean fisted his hands in J.R.'s coveralls and forced the demon toward where the bed used to be, then released it, falling backwards onto his rear, gasping for breath. The demon moved to rush Dean only to be stopped by an invisible wall. Stumbling, it looked around, confused.

"Devil's fuckin' Trap, asshole." Dean spat blood from his mouth.

Sam stood next him, equally soaked, breathing hard. All three looked up to see the crude, hastily drawn Devil's Trap Sam had scratched into the dry-walled ceiling with the tip of the knife.

"Nice job, Sammy," Dean gasped, reaching a hand for help to his feet.

"Thanks." Sam gripped his arm, leveraging him up. "I need to start carrying Sharpies on me or something."

Dean glanced once more at the scratched up ceiling. "You work with what you have."

"Why didn't you let me kill him?" Sam asked, eyeing J.R.

Dean licked his lip, only realizing he'd drawn more blood into his mouth when he followed that motion with a swipe of his hand and saw the red smear.

"Well, for one," Dean said, circling the demon, "the guy he's wearing doesn't deserve it."

The demon sneered.

"Plus, I think you might know something," Dean said to the demon.

"He knows of the reward for killing Michael's vessel."

Castiel's voice from out of nowhere had Dean and Sam jerking in surprise.

"Son of a—we need to put a freakin' bell around your neck!" Dean exclaimed.

"I don't see what purpose that would serve," Castiel replied, his brows pulled close over his placid blue eyes.

"Where have you been?" Sam demanded.

"Looking for answers," Castiel replied, stepping calmly over the broken furniture, the storm outside forcing him to raise his ever-modulated voice. "I have information that may help us."

"With him?" Dean pointed to the trapped demon glaring quietly at Castiel.

"He is of no concern to us."

"How do you know?"

"Because I followed him here," Castiel looked at Dean, tilting his head.

"Took your sweet time, didn't you?" Dean muttered. "And he _is_ a concern—there's an innocent guy in there."

Castiel stared at him for a long moment. Dean held his eyes, forcing the angel to see the turmoil, the frustration, the overpowering need to _fix this _that churned just beneath the surface.

"I see," Castiel said, as if he truly had seen something.

Dean frowned, unsure what he might've inadvertently revealed to the angel.

Castiel turned to the demon. "You realize you are playing a very dangerous game."

"Maybe for you," the demon snarled.

"Hell is at war with itself," Castiel continued, moving around Dean and pulling the demon's attention with him. "The bounty on this vessel could be paid in blood if the wrong…," Castiel's eyes flicked over the demon's face, then off to the side, "…_being_…were to find out what you had done."

J.R.'s demon frowned.

"There are some who want to see how this plays out," Castiel said mildly over the noise of the storm.

Dean looked over at Sam, seeing his brother's eyes already on him as he hunched his back against the incoming rain.

"Let your friends know that the bounty on Michael's vessel comes at a price," Castiel said, his voice a low, threatening growl.

J.R.'s demon looked over at Dean, who lifted his chin in return, challenging it to say something. Face twisted in a pissed-off sneer, the demon screamed its way out of J.R.'s mouth, leaving the maintenance man to crumble in a boneless heap.

"Thanks, Cas," Dean said sincerely, the adrenaline high from the fight beginning to wear off, leaving him slightly light-headed and incredibly weary.

"I told you to be careful," Castiel snapped, facing Dean. "Retracing your footsteps makes you too easy to predict and find."

"Yeah, okay, we got it," Dean returned, wiping rain from his face as it clouded his vision.

Castiel was wavering in front of him, shifting slightly in perception and focus. Edges were blurring, turning almost liquid.

_Oh, God, no, not yet._

He ran his wet sleeve across his eyes, willing his sight to clear, needing to keep this sense long enough get the antidote from the demon.

"We cannot stay here," Castiel informed them.

"Ya think?" Sam shouted, moving to toss the broken table and chairs aside, searching for their duffel bags and his—now ruined—laptop.

"We need to head to some place where we can work in peace," Castiel said to Sam, then looked over at Dean, "and summon a demon."

"We could head to the Bottoms," Dean said, turning to grab the belongings left in the bathroom.

His vision swayed once more, tilting crazily sideways and forcing him to reach out and brace himself on the dresser. If he didn't know better, he'd swear he was drunk. Everything seemed muted, narrowed, as if he were falling down a tunnel, then yo-yoing back upwards once more.

"What is this place?" Castiel asked.

"It's downtown," Sam explained shoving his wet hair from his face. "Basically a bunch of abandoned warehouses."

Dean moved away from the dresser, leaving Sam to answer Castiel. He wanted to retrieve his flask from where he'd thrown it earlier.

"And no one will be there?"

As Dean bent over, a twisted sensation of nausea and darkness seemed to wash over him like a wave.

"No one that will care what we're—Dean? You okay?"

He was on his knees. When had he gone to his knees?

"Dunno…." His voice was slurred, sluggish. "Something's…really off."

Sam was next to him, peering at him. It wasn't until he looked down that Dean realized his brother was gripping his arm tight enough to turn the wet skin white.

He couldn't connect why that didn't make sense. He'd always been able to recognize Sam's grip. Always.

"Oh, Jesus…," Sam breathed, his face paling, his eyes on Dean's side.

"What?" Dean pulled his brows together. "What is it?"

"Just…take it easy, Dean," Sam was saying, talking to him with that tone again. That cornered-animal tone.

Dean looked down at his side and blinked at the sight of a two-inch piece of glass protruding from the area just beneath his ribcage. His gray Henley and jeans were soaked through, dark with water. He saw now that blood had mixed in, turning much of the material black, but it was hard to say by simply looking how much blood he'd lost; the wet clothes masked too much.

The slow spin of his head and the steadily increasing feeling of falling both pointed to two things, though: his body was going into shock and he'd been bleeding for awhile.

Drunkenly, he lifted his eyes, meeting his brother's anxious hazel eyes.

"I didn't…didn't even feel it," he confessed.

He lifted his hand, looking at the appendage, slightly amazed to see it still attached to the end of his arm. Amazed the he even _had_ an arm. The rain had soaked through the bandages on his wrists, all-but exposing the raw cuts. He wiped at his mouth with a clumsy hand, seeing the red stain of blood from a split lip.

"I don't…feel anything," he whispered, surprised that he could still feel himself falling. How could he fall if he didn't have a body?

He realized that Sam was adjusting his hold, turning to face him. But he couldn't feel the pressure of his hands, denied even the comfort of touch.

"It's okay," Sam was saying. "We'll fix this…we'll fix this, Dean."

Dean pushed back against the darkness, willing it away. It hadn't been his sight. He had to repeat the assertion to himself.

_I still have my sight._

He could still see his brother, see the arms that gripped him, lifted him, sat him on the wet bed, tipping him sideways. He could see Castiel's tense face; worry a foreign visitor in eyes that had seen so much.

"If I can't…can't feel it, how come I'm…so dizzy?" Dean forced out.

"The virus blocks the sensory receptors," Castiel said calmly, pushing J.R.'s limp body slightly to the side with his foot so that he could step closer to Dean. "It doesn't affect the physical damage done to your body. You cannot feel it, but your body is still impacted by invasion and loss of blood."

"He can't feel it, but…it still hurts?" Sam barked, his voice the edge of a blade, his patience evidently washed away by the constant barrage of rain and bad news.

"Essentially, yes," Castiel nodded.

"How does that even make sense?"

"I did not manufacture the virus," Castiel reminded them. "And the human body is a complex organism. Beyond your comprehension."

"Okay," Dean shoved out, forcing his lips to obey him, demanding his voice stay steady. "Not the time for the whole _mysterious ways_ shit, Cas. Can you help or what?"

Dean watched as Sam looked expectantly at Castiel, waiting for the angel to make this right.

"I cannot heal you," Castiel said softly. "I am sorry, but—"

"Forget it," Sam snapped. "We did just fine before angels came along."

"Can you do this, Sam?" Dean reached up to grab his brother's arm, dismayed to find that he had to command his hand to close.

There was nothing there, nothing below his fingers, nothing in his grip. Only there was. Sam was there. He held on to Sam and felt…nothing.

"You're bleeding a lot, man," Sam shoved his hair back, his eyes darting along the wound and up to Dean's face, "it's gonna be sketchy."

"Well…you can't hurt me," Dean pointed out.

"Yeah," Sam reminded him. "I can. You just won't know it."

Castiel straightened suddenly, stepping around the cockeyed bed to peer through the broken window. Watching him, Dean realized the angel was listening to something.

"Thought you weren't on the angel grapevine anymore," he called out.

Sam turned slightly to frown in Castiel's direction. "What are you—"

"Sirens," Castiel replied. "Still at a distance, but coming this way."

"Fuck me," Dean whispered. "This just gets better and better."

"We must leave this place," Castiel said needlessly. "We cannot be caught by the authorities."

"Pretty sure we got that, Cas," Sam snapped moving away from Dean.

Pushing himself upright on wooden arms, unnerved by the slow spin of the world, Dean craned his neck to see where his brother went. Sam returned carrying the spare white towels from the bathroom.

"You don't understand—she is tracking you," Cas continued.

"What?" Dean sank back against the wet mattress. "I thought you said—"

"The virus," Castiel interrupted. "She is able to track the virus."

"We gotta hurry," Sam muttered, his eyes on Dean's. "I'll get the glass out, but we'll have to wait to stitch you up."

Dean nodded. "Field dressing."

"Got it," Sam replied, wiping his face once more. "Cas—get our stuff in one pile. We're gonna have to move fast."

"There isn't much for me to…consolidate," Castiel said.

Dean caught his brother's eyes. "It's okay, Sam. You got this."

"Ready?" Sam replied, unable, it seemed, to register the fact that Dean wouldn't actually feel the pain inflicted upon his body. "One, two—"

Dean saw Sam's shoulders flinch and shift, watched as his arms were suddenly a blur of motion, sensed that his body was being pressed deeper into the sodden mattress, heard Sam's grunts of effort and whispered curses…but felt nothing.

"Gotta wrap this around you," Sam was saying. "Tie off the padding. Need to keep pressure on this—here."

Dean saw his brother grab his hand, moving it down to his side. He followed the path of motion and saw that Sam had folded one of the smaller towels into a thick square, covering the wound, then wrapped a longer towel around Dean's waist, tying off the bandage over the square. Sam placed Dean's hand over the knot.

"Can you press?"

Dean tried, ordering his arm muscles to constrict. "How's that?"

"Good," Sam nodded. "Just keep that up until we get outta here. I'm getting our bags."

Castiel moved over to Dean, helping him sit up, and then slinging Dean's free arm over his shoulders. Dean registered he was standing by the change in perception, but it was as if he were floating, disembodied and unconnected from the world around him.

"I will take us—" Castiel began.

"You're crazy if you think I'm leaving my car." Dean cut him off, unsure if he were actually walking or if Castiel was dragging him out into the rain. Everything was slipping in and out of focus, making it hard to keep his eyes on any one thing.

He saw Sam rush past them, throwing their wet bags into the trunk, then open the passenger rear door, water kicking up around his ankles.

"Get in the back," Sam ordered.

"We must hurry," Castiel said, easing Dean down and shutting the door behind him.

Dean heard a door open, then shut, closing his eyes and willing his stomach to stay put. He hadn't realized he'd started to shake until he tried to wipe water from his eyes and saw the visible tremble of his hand.

It took him a moment to realize that his head was no longer lying on the seat of the Impala, but resting on the trench coat-covered thigh of an angel of the Lord.

Awkwardly lifting his head and craning his neck, he tried to look up at Castiel.

"What—"

"I know what the antidote is," Castiel informed them as Sam turned the ignition, the faithful Chevy roaring to life despite the torrent of water rushing under and around it. "And we need to get it in the next twelve hours."

Dean tried to sit up, working to put some space between himself and Castiel, but he was met with resistance.

"What! It's not even been one full day. We should have more time!" Sam countered, slamming the gear in reverse.

Looking down the length of his body, Dean saw the make-shift bandage on his side had quickly slipped from white to red, his wet clothes soaking through the towels and turning the edges of the red to pink.

Resting on the bandage was Castiel's surprisingly strong hand, keeping Dean immobile with barely any effort. It was unnerving for Dean to see Castiel work to keep his blood from spilling free—even more so to see the angel's hand tremble with the force of Dean's shaking body.

"This demon has a price on its head," Castiel informed them, grunting as his back slammed against the seat when Sam hit the break and shifted to drive. "Tomorrow night, the stay of execution will be lifted. In twelve hours, Dean will be dead."

"Son of a bitch," Sam and Dean muttered in unison.

The sirens were loud enough now that Dean could hear them over the sound of the storm.

"We gotta lose these bastards, Sammy," Dean grunted through teeth gritted against the shakes. "Can you do that?"

"Watch me," Sam returned.

* * *

**a/n: **I am a bit sorry for the cliffy; don't mean to tease…just trying to pace the story out so that these long chapters aren't too cumbersome. Hope to see you back next chapter!

**Playlist:**

_Hurt_ - originally by Nine Inch Nails, but I used the cover done by the original Man In Black, Johnny Cash


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer/ Spoilers:** See chapter 1

**WARNING:** This story carries a bit of a darker theme than I've written before; wanted to give you a heads up. I caution for bad words and the like in the chapters to come.

**a/n: **Thanks for coming back! I wanted to get this up earlier, but had some family things to attend to this weekend and was unable to find time. My apologies.

You guys really intrigued me with your responses to the way (and order) in which Dean is losing his senses. When I planned this story, I tried to think of it in two ways: what would frighten _me_ most, and what I thought would frighten _Dean_ most. It was a toss-up. So I just tried to tie the loss of senses to how the story rolled out.

I hope you continue to enjoy!

* * *

_"He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you."_

_- Friedrich Nietzsche_

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Sam's gut tightened as he plowed through the rising flood in the parking lot, his eyes darting quickly from the water-logged windshield to the rear-view mirror at the blue and red lights illuminating the unnatural darkness of the day. Frowning, he shot a second glance in the mirror as he saw a figure of a woman—blonde, slim, dressed mostly in black—duck into their ruined hotel room.

"Go, Sam! Get the hell outta here."

Dean's voice shook, causing Sam to catch his breath. If it wasn't shaking from pain, that meant his brother's body was simply reacting, and that scared him. _Pain_ he knew. _Pain_ he'd lived with. _Pain_ he could ignore.

But this virus was causing damage beyond his twenty-seven years of dealing with _pain_.

The Impala hydroplaned as Sam punched the gas, sending them out of the parking lot at a sprawl. Working the wheel with sure, practiced hands, he fought to keep the car under his control as his heartbeat slammed crazily against the base of his throat. Adrenaline coursed through him, giving him a heady high and forcing his movements to be almost too aggressive.

He thought he could hear Dean breathing over the cacophony of rain beating against the car, filling his vision with momentary sweeps of water-soaked blindness. Another shimmy on the wet road and he heard Castiel's free hand slap against the side window as he fought to brace his body. Dean hadn't said a word since imploring him to get out of there, and Sam was too afraid to release his grasp on the steering wheel and risk a glance back at his brother.

"How's he doing?" Sam called back to Castiel, catching the angel's blue eyes in the rearview mirror.

"He is not conscious," Castiel replied.

"Dammit."

"He needs medical attention."

"Tell me something I don't know!"

"The antidote is a second dose of the virus," Castiel obligatorily responded.

"Okay, yeah." Sam blinked. "Didn't know that."

"If we summon this demon, we must be prepared for a fight," Castiel continued.

Sam turned hard right, skidding onto an exit ramp, slipping over the state line to Missouri and into the bowels of Kansas City. He didn't know how the police worked this border town, but he was hoping if any of the Kansas squad cars had caught sight of the fleeing Chevy in the ruckus of the rainstorm, it would take them time to coordinate pursuit with the Missouri officers.

"I know the Eye of God doesn't work," Sam said through gritted teeth.

"It works," Castiel countered.

Sam shot his eyes up to the rear-view mirror, a protest ready on his lips when Castiel cut him off.

"If worn by a true believer, it works."

"So…not a demon with a price on its head, then," Sam grumbled.

"You must be completely free of doubt or duplicity," Castiel said. "And I have yet to encounter a human with that quality. It is not possible with a demon."

"Doesn't matter anyway," Sam said, holding his breath as he shot past a cross street, water splashing up to momentarily cover the Impala's windshield. "Dean lost track of it after the accident. It could be anywhere."

"Even if we had the Eye of God, I would not hand it over to a…demon," Castiel asserted. "We will be forced to get the antidote by different means."

"Plan B it is," Sam whispered.

He dared a look over his shoulder, catching a quick glimpse of Dean's torso, dark with rainwater and blood, beneath Castiel's hand.

"Keep pressure on his side," he ordered, taking a left into an alleyway, eyes skimming the narrow cross streets as he barreled through, his heart in his teeth. "I know you said you couldn't heal him before—when Alistair worked him over—but this is different."

"It's not about the wound."

Sam clenched his jaw. "Don't suppose there's any way any of these brothers of yours—"

"They will not help us in that way," Castiel replied, his voice heavy with regret.

Sparing a glance in the rearview mirror, Sam saw that Castiel's eyes were down, presumably on Dean, and the unmistakably human expression of worry had drawn lines between his brows, pulling his mouth into a thin, tight line. Before Sam could say anything else, Castiel continued.

"There are some that believe as I do—that God is out there. That He will save us, help us put order to the Heavens. And there are others," Castiel grunted as the Impala went slightly airborne, returning to Earth with a shimmy of shocks and a quick shower of sparks, "who believe Dean is our only hope. By serving as Michael's vessel, he will allow us to finally bring peace back to this world. They do not agree that he has a choice in the matter, and are…angry…that he is fighting them."

"So, what," Sam frowned, "are you playing both sides against the middle?"

He slowed as he saw a garage-like opening at the base of an abandoned warehouse, the entire top portion of the bricked building flanked by a series of small rectangular windows. The light from the hundreds of white and red bulbs that illuminated the famous Western Auto sign atop one of the nearby warehouses in The Bottoms cast an eerie electric glow onto the windows in the storm-induced, mid-day darkness.

"I am simply gathering information as quickly as I can to protect Dean. And…you."

Castiel's reluctant addition twisted Sam's lips as he pulled into the darkened opening, the rain suddenly relegated once more to background noise. It was dark inside the warehouse, the Impala's lights helping to keep him from running into a support beam or side wall.

"Careful, Cas," Sam groused, "you might sprain something including me in your mission."

"You are an abomination," Castiel said calmly, his placid voice contrasting with the stinging cruelty of his words. "You have channeled demonic powers that soured your humanity."

"Yeah, well…I got over it," Sam protested, not liking the fact that he had no choice but to listen to Castiel's bias against him. Not liking that part of him didn't blame the angel.

Atonement was a long and lonely road.

"True," Castiel allowed. "You did overcome the addiction. But you are to be Lucifer's vessel—"

"Over my dead body," Sam snapped, heat rolling under his skin at the thought. "I get it, okay? I'm not your favorite person. I'll try to live with that. But right now, we got bigger things to worry about."

"Indeed," Castiel replied as Sam pulled up to a stop inside the echoing building and turned off the car. "It is troublesome that this demon has risked exposure just to inflict this virus on Dean."

_That…and my brother is bleeding to death in your arms_.

Sam forced himself to breathe through his nose as he reached into their glove box, pushing aside the spare .45 Dean always insisted they keep there, and grabbed the heavy MagLite flashlight. There were times listening to and talking with Castiel gave Sam the same physical reaction of frustrated fury he'd felt when his father had been alive.

"Just…stay here for a sec and keep pressure on his wound."

"Where are you going?"

"Need to find a place we can take him."

Sam ducked out of the car, straightening and shining the light around in an arc as he stood inside the opened door. He saw that just beyond the Impala was a series of railroad-like tracks with small boxcars parked and rusting. The weak daylight filtering through the windows above him was only enough to cast impenetrable shadows in various corners of the empty building. Looking up, he saw that light from the Western Auto sign sparkled slightly through some of the beveled pieces of glass.

"Sam."

He startled a bit at that. Castiel seemed to refrain from using his name unless absolutely necessary. He ducked his head back into the car.

"We should hurry."

Sam bit his tongue at the automatic retort that _no freakin' shit they needed to hurry_—the clock was ticking and they had both a demon and the cops on their ass—when he saw the Castiel's free hand was on Dean's throat. His brother's face appeared to be still wet from the rain, but his coloring was off: too pale overall, heightened color in his cheeks.

Sam took a shallow breath. "Wait here. I'll be right back."

The inside of the warehouse was, thankfully, dry. Bird droppings covered nearly every surface. As he made his way deeper into the room, Sam saw a metal staircase winding upwards to a partially-collapsed landing. Dropping his light from the edge of the landing to the wood floor where he stood, he saw a number of work benches with clamps and some kind of rusted saw shoved off into the corner as well as several overturned tables.

Moving quickly, he set the flashlight on the edge of a workbench to illuminate his surroundings, pulling a few of the tables around to create a mini-shelter and platform to lay Dean on. He narrowed his eyes at the dried excrement, but decided he didn't have much choice in the matter; they would simply have to find an inventive way to cover it.

"Sam."

He jerked, spinning around, a curse berating Castiel for abandoning his post ready on his lips. It died the moment the flashlight hit the figure of the angel. Castiel stood in the odd half-light of the beam, strange, wing-shaped shadows bouncing across the walls behind him, Dean hanging limply from his arms.

Sam gaped for a moment; his brother was no light weight. He was slightly shorter than Sam, but compact and all muscle. Sam had been forced to haul Dean's boneless form around more than once. He knew the strength that took.

Seeing the angel effortlessly holding him—Dean's head against Castiel's shoulder, his arms and legs dangling like a child who'd fallen asleep and was being carried to bed—tweaked something against Sam's heart.

"What—"

"We need to mend his wound. Now."

Pressing the back of his hand against his trembling lips, Sam thought quickly. "Can you hold him for another minute?"

"I can hold him as long as it takes," Castiel said simply, the angel's voice betraying nothing of what such a statement might mean to the brother whose whole life he held in his hands.

Nodding, Sam ran to the Impala's trunk, tossing their wet bags onto the floor, then leaned far into the recesses of the compartment for the spare towels they'd accumulated from numerous hotels. Grabbing them, the first aid kit, and one more flashlight, he headed back to the make-shift treatment area he'd constructed.

"Bring him over here," he said as he passed Castiel.

He moved the flashlight to focus on the table, then turned on the spare and did the same with it. Spreading the towels on the table, he covered the dirt and filth, and then indicated with a nod that Castiel should lay Dean down. His gut bottomed out at the sight of his brother's pale, still face. Dean's forehead was smooth, his lips slightly parted.

"Cas—" Sam practically choked. "Is he…."

"He's alive," Castiel replied. "His body is working to combat the damage. Pain is only a word associated with sensation and as he cannot feel the hurt—"

"Okay, enough talking," Sam waved a hand at the angel. There were too many words floating around the dusty, abandoned warehouse, and none of them were the words he wanted to hear. He moved closer to Dean trying to shine the beam of light his brother's wound. "Dammit, I need more light."

The flash that followed his curse left an after-image on the backs of Sam's eyes. He blinked in confusion, shaking his head as a negative-like outline of Dean's profile flashed across his vision.

"What the hell?" He looked around. It was as if the windows above him had captured the electric light from the sign and channeled it into a beam that spotlighted his make-shift med station. "How—"

"You needed light," Castiel said, his voice a shrug.

"Right," Sam shoved his wet hair from his face. "Right, okay."

He untied the towel from Dean's side, the blood-soaked bandage pulling away with a wet, sucking sound. The gray Henley was ruined, drenched with blood and rain and torn from Dean's fight with the demonic maintenance man. Sam reached into the first aid kit and pulled out a pair of scissors he'd stolen from the bar he'd worked at when separated from Dean.

Cutting the shirt open, he saw that the slice in Dean's skin was roughly two inches across and still steadily spilling blood. Taking a breath, Sam lifted his eyes to Castiel.

"I…I don't know how deep it went," he confessed. "There could be bleeding inside."

"Why do you doubt yourself?" Castiel asked, his frown fierce.

Sam blinked in confusion.

"You have repaired your brother on numerous occasions with no medical knowledge beyond what your father provided and you learned on the road," Castiel continued. "You have yet to kill him."

Huffing out a grudging laugh, Sam looked at Dean's pale face. "When you put it that way…."

He used one of the towels to wipe away the blood, and then reached for the bottle of antiseptic.

"Any other time," he said softly to his unconscious brother, "I'd worry about this waking you up."

He poured the antiseptic over the cut, wincing as he pried open the torn flesh to make sure the cleansing fluid reached inside and flushed away any particles of glass or torn bits of shirt. The memory of how that felt sent shivers through him. Shifting his eyes quickly to Dean's face, he wasn't sure if he should be dismayed or relieved when his brother showed no reaction.

"How can I help?" Castiel asked quietly.

"Uh…," Sam tried to find a clear path of thought in the maze of fear and worry in his mind. "Salt. Along the entrance. Look in the trunk."

Sam peered into the bag and pulled out the suture kit and bandages. He hastily searched his memory for things that could help Dean that they didn't have on hand. "And he needs fluids. Saline IV. Antibiotics. And pain meds, even—" He looked up as a strange whisper shook the air around him, "—tually."

Castiel was gone.

Taking a breath, Sam began to sew his brother's skin together, trying to stay ahead of the blood, being as precise as possible despite hands shaking from fear and adrenaline. He'd placed nearly eight stitches when the whisper cut through the rain-soaked quiet once more.

Sam took a breath, steadying the needle. "Dean has a point about that bell."

"Will these help?" Castiel asked, his voice quavering slightly.

Looking up, Sam's eyebrows bounced in surprise. "What the hell happened to you?"

Castiel's lip was bleeding, his hair disheveled, and his trench coat slightly askew. "I was…met with resistance."

Frowning, Sam tied off the last stitch. "What'd you do, rip off a hospital?"

"It wasn't local," Castiel replied.

"Unbelievable," Sam muttered, reaching for the saline IV bag and catheter that Castiel held. "No wonder you and Dean get along so well."

Castiel set the medication next to the first aid kit. "What else?"

Sam placed a white square of gauze over the sutures, securing it with medical tape. He frowned when he saw the gauze almost immediately tinge pink along the line of stitches.

"Did you line the entrance with—"

"Salt, yes," Castiel nodded.

"Well, if you're going into hunter-gatherer mode," he started, "Water. Food. And then there's the stuff we need to summon a demon."

"Perhaps you should make a list," Castiel suggested.

Sam narrowed his eyes. "Are you kidding?"

Castiel peered over Sam's shoulder. "No."

Brow puckering with irritation, Sam shifted, blocking the angel's view. Castiel simply moved to the end of the table, his eyes intent on Sam's progress as he searched for a vein on the inside of Dean's forearm to insert the catheter.

"Only had to do this twice before," Sam confessed, blinking sweat from his eyes. "'S not easy."

"You are doing fine, Sam," Castiel assured him.

Sam glanced up, taken aback at the gentle praise. "For an abomination, you mean."

Castiel looked at him without a trace of malice, the drying blood on his lip giving him an air of vulnerability. "And a brother."

Looking away, exposed by the angel's eyes, Sam hung the IV bag on one of the workbenches. Scratching at his nose, he looked back down at Dean. The torn shirt revealed the bruise from the virus needle stretching with purple vengeance down Dean's ribcage and spilling over onto his belly, just shy of the bandaged glass cut.

_Maybe it's a good thing you can't feel anything,_ Sam found himself mentally projecting toward his brother.

"Can't give him the medicine until he wakes up," he said. "Wish there was something else we could do."

Castiel shuffled closer to Dean, cocking his head to the side as if studying a work of art. Without a word, he shrugged out of his trench coat, laying it across Dean's bared chest, and adjusting it so that it reached his knees.

"That was nice," Sam commented.

"He will wake up when his body allows," Castiel replied. "If we move quickly, we could have the antidote by then."

Sam leaned back against the workbench near the IV bag. "Doubt it. We're not supposed to get that lucky."

Castiel narrowed his eyes. "You didn't always believe that."

Shoving his drying hair away from his eyes, Sam huffed. "So you _have_ been watching us awhile. Guess I win the pool."

"You both were known to me before you were born," Castiel said, moving around to the other side of the table where Dean laid, his eyes on the unconscious man. "You were known to me before your parents were born."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Because of our destinies?"

"No," Castiel looked up at him. "Because of who you are."

Sam rubbed his face. "If you say so."

"Do you know why I was sent to Hell to rescue Dean?"

Sam looked over at the angel. "To stop him from breaking the first seal."

"Because he sacrificed his life for you," Castiel countered, his normally gruff voice deepening, his eyes oddly aglow in the captured light. "Angels are always angels, Sam. They are never anything else."

Sam frowned, confused. "Yeah, so?"

"There are some demons that were once human," Castiel said. "The demon you called Ruby was once a human witch."

Sam pushed away from the workbench, stepping closer to the table, listening. Without consciously realizing it, he dropped his hands down to rest on Dean's arm, seeking balance.

"Hell erases humanity," Castiel continued. "It is the complete absence of God, of all things good. It is devoid of hope. Without even the chance for light, the human soul disintegrates and a demon is born."

"Cas…," Sam whispered. "Did Dean ever…was he a demon? Y'know, in Hell?"

He hadn't realized how close to the surface that question had been—if Dean had succumbed, if he'd slipped the hold of humanity to torture souls on the rack. Somehow, if he had, then all Sam had done after Dean came back—the blood addiction, sleeping with Ruby, exorcising demons with his mind, killing Alistair—could be justified in Sam's mind.

He wouldn't be the only brother to have gone to the dark side.

Castiel shook his head. "His humanity burned bright," he said, looking down at Dean. "They pierced his flesh…broke his bones…skinned him alive. And yet he held tight to his soul."

Sam felt bile burn the back of his throat as Castiel spoke of the torture Dean had endured. Torture Dean had never told him about. Torture that Sam knew still visited his brother in his sleep, night after night. Even after all this time, after all they'd survived—together and apart.

"He said…," Sam forced out through stiff lips. "He said he climbed off the rack. That he started to…that he did to other souls what they'd done to him." Sam looked up at Castiel. "_You_ said he broke the first seal."

Castiel nodded. "He called out to each of us," he said softly, his voice like crushed gravel. "He called out for help. But we were prevented from hearing. Until his heart broke. And the sound shook the Heavens."

"But…he was always…human?" Sam searched for confirmation. "Even when he…did that stuff?"

Castiel was quiet for a moment, his eyes still on Dean. "When you exorcised demons using only your will, were you still human?"

Sam felt a rock lodge in his chest, behind his heart. He couldn't answer. He couldn't move. He could only stare at Castiel.

"When you drank the blood of a demon and felt the power surge through you, were you still human?"

Castiel lifted his eyes and Sam felt his lungs trip over breath at the dual expression of accusation and understanding echoing from the angel's gaze.

"When you killed Lilith," Castiel said, his voice barely above a whisper, yet hitting Sam in the gut with each word, "and your eyes turned black with the force of that moment, were you still human?"

"Yes," Sam choked out.

"Dean's actions at the behest of his captors were only a temporary solace." Castiel looked up at the prismatic windows. "He never lost his humanity. The pain that bled through his soul was my beacon." Sam watched as the angel clenched his fist. "My sin is that I was not fast enough."

"Sin?"

Castiel looked over at Sam and he felt his heart slam hard against his ribs at the naked pain exposed for a brief moment in the angel's gaze.

"My atonement is protecting him now," Castiel said, looking down and leaving Sam swaying with the residual impact of his eyes. "As best I can."

Sam swallowed, any words he thought to say meaningless in the wake of Castiel's confession. The noise of the rain that had been relegated to background noise in the rush to stop Dean from bleeding to death seemed to surge in and fill the gap of uncomfortable silence. It beat against the myriad of windows that surrounded the top of the building, hammering on the metal roof far above them.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Sam took a breath, tasting with that intake of air the dampness of the weather, the age of the building, the regret and pain that swam between the three men huddled in the shadows.

Time ticked by without remorse and Sam knew he could no longer afford moments to simply breathe.

"I can get you that list."

Castiel tilted his head. "List?"

"For supplies. And, y'know…demon summoning…stuff."

Castiel looked up and around, nodding. "Yes, this should be a sufficient location."

"Any idea how we're going to get the virus away from her?" Sam asked. "Assuming she has it."

Castiel's blue eyes seemed to flare. "I've learned a few…techniques," he said. "They manufactured two vials—and apparently we killed the chemist."

"Wish I could talk to this source of yours," Sam grumbled, using the stub of a bar pencil and the back of the gauze package to write out what he remembered all too well as the elements needed to summon a demon.

"You would not like him," Castiel informed him, averting his eyes, his expression troubled.

"Can't argue with you there," Sam muttered, handing the list over. "We're going to have to move fast when you get back. And I don't expect her to just accept that the Eye of God won't work for her."

"It does not matter if the demon accepts it," Castiel said, his voice a low growl. He closed his fist around the list. "We will not allow it to win."

It took Sam a moment to realize that he was once again alone in the abandoned warehouse with his brother. Leaning forward on the table, bracing his hands at Dean's side, Sam let his head hang low, trying to steady himself, pull in air, deny the unexpected press of tears.

He'd lost track of how much time had passed since they'd left the motel. How much longer did Dean have? How fast would he lose his last two senses? How quickly would he suffocate, his brain unable to command his lungs to fill?

How many times had he been forced to watch his brother die?

Pushing away from the table, Sam rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He dragged a hand down his face, pulling at his lower lip, then slid down the side of one workbench to sit on the floor, his knees tented, one hand cupping the other, resting against his lips as if keeping sound at bay.

_We are so screwed up, Dean._

They hadn't stood a chance; all this fighting, all the struggle, and they still end up wounded, alone, forcing back the darkness. Dean's recent words slipped in through the chaos of his mind.

_I was so worried about watching your every move that I didn't see what it was actually doing to you…._

What it was actually doing to him…. He'd been so tangled up in Ruby, in the rush of power, in the need to do _right_—do it on his own, without his family's approval or assistance…. He hadn't stopped to see what he was doing to _himself_. What he was doing to _them_.

The rain slapped the windows overhead, marking time like a stopwatch. He rested his eyes on Dean's still form, Castiel's reveal of what his brother had been through in Hell bounced around Sam's head like a pinball made of mercury, splashing against memories of Dean's tense sleep, the sounds of the nightmares eating through him, the way he'd looked at Sam when he'd discovered his blood addiction…the accusation, the betrayal.

His body grew cold, stiff, from sitting on the floor, his thoughts a sour companion.

He'd let Dean simmer in his post-Hell pain. He'd seen what it was doing to Dean, and he'd let it happen. And if he were honest with himself, he hadn't really cared. Dean had been back, had gotten his second chance, and had done so _without_ Sam's sacrifice. It was the worst kind of survivor's guilt: Sam had gotten what he'd wanted without having to give anything in return.

"Dammit, Dean," he whispered, closing his eyes, fury building hot and fast inside him, burning around his heart, flaring against the base of his throat.

If he opened his mouth, he wouldn't be surprised to see a thread of fire slip free and engulf both of them.

"Why didn't you tell me, man?"

If Dean had just _told_ him what Hell had been like things might've been different. If he'd just known. He could have done it differently.

He would have _wanted_ to do it all differently. There would have been a reason. Dean could have stopped it all—Ruby, Lillith, maybe even Lucifer—if he'd just _trusted_—

"Sam?"

He jerked in surprise, sniffing as he looked up at Dean. "Hey," he greeted his brother's groggy gaze. "How are you fe—" He stopped, swallowing the last word. He pushed to his feet and moved quietly to Dean's side.

"Where…?" Dean frowned, pulling his brows together across the bridge of his nose. He rolled his head on the table, eyes taking in their surroundings until they finally rested on Sam. "You okay?"

Sam huffed. _Typical_. "Yeah, I'm okay. Stitched you up."

He watched Dean's eye track from his face to the tube dangling from the IV bag.

"Where'd you get that?" His voice was scratchy, drained.

"Cas," Sam replied.

"How?"

"I really don't think we want to know," Sam replied.

"How…long've I been out?"

"Uh," Sam looked at his watch, trying to remember when they'd arrived. "Few hours."

Dean closed his eyes. Sam watched him swallow, his lips pressed tight. He rested his hand on his brother's arm, flexing his fingers automatically in reassurance. Dean took a breath and opened his eyes, looking over as if to speak.

Sam saw the moment Dean recognized that he was being touched. He saw Dean see his hand on his arm. See it, and not feel it.

Sam pulled his hand back as if Dean had been on fire.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly.

"Forget it," Dean mumbled. "Help me up?"

"Maybe you should just give it—"

"Sam." Dean's voice was the crack of a whip. "I'm running out of time."

Sam nodded, feeling the rock that had lodge behind his heart earlier drop low, settling into his stomach. He gripped Dean's hand, folding his brother's fingers around his.

"Got me?"

Dean nodded once. Sam slipped a hand behind Dean's shoulder, then flexed, pulling him forward slowly, allowing Dean's equilibrium to adjust. Castiel's trench coat slipped down the length of Dean's body, pooling around his waist.

"Huh," Dean looked down at the garment. "Don't think I've ever seen him without this."

"He wanted to help," Sam explained, pulling the coat free and setting it next to Dean. He moved to his brother's arm, removing the needle and tubing from the empty IV bag, and pressing a square of cotton over the tiny puncture wound. "Probably could've used more than one of these," he muttered. "You lost a lot of blood."

Now that Dean was awake—and talking to him—the mayhem of Sam's thoughts seemed to cool, quiet, abate. Sam was content to let Dean's noise fill the silence that was too easily ruled by the darkness inside of him.

"We can worry about that later," Dean said, lifting the edges of his ruined shirt. "We got anything else I can put on?"

"Maybe," Sam said, offering his hand to help Dean slide off the table.

"Whoa," Dean whispered as he swayed, fumbling to brace himself against a table he couldn't feel.

Sam watched as Dean's hand skipped along the surface, resistance against movement his brother's only assertion that he was, indeed, touching something.

"You okay?"

Sam flinched at the look his brother shot his way.

"Yeah, stupid question," he recanted.

"I just…," Dean shook his head slowly. "It's so…. I know I'm _here_." He lifted a hand hesitantly from the table turning it over. Sam watched the light spill across his brother's fingers. "I _see_ me," Dean continued, his voice trembling slightly. "You…you're talking to me. I'm here."

"Yeah, you're here, man," Sam whispered, feeling himself fall inside, seeking balance and finding none.

Then Dean looked at him and the naked fear swimming in the green irises seemed to grab Sam by the throat, shaking him roughly, and setting him once more on his feet.

"I can't _feel anything_, Sam," Dean said, emotion tearing the corners of his words. "Nothing. It's like I'm…I'm disappearing."

Sam felt sick. Dean wasn't supposed to sound like this. He hadn't sounded like this since…. With the force of a punch, Sam was reminded of that moment under the viaduct so long ago now when he'd first learned about the rack. About Dean's survival. About the moment his brother broke.

"That's not true."

Fear was real. Fear was _human_.

_He never lost his humanity._

"What?" Dean's question was a breath.

"You still feel, Dean," Sam stressed.

Dean looked away and Sam darted into his eye line.

"You told me once you wished you didn't feel anything," Sam reminded him. "You remember that?"

"This is different, Sam."

"Bullshit," Sam spat. "Bull_shit_ it's different!" Sam grabbed Dean's arm, tugging it roughly so that the motion caught his brother's attention.

"Dude! What the hell!" Dean staggered slightly.

Something dark twisted inside of Sam. Something angry and hurt. Something that both wanted to save Dean from this new version of Hell and at the same time wanted to use it to remind them that Dean wasn't alone in this fight. That he wasn't the only one who had suffered. That they were _both_ fighting a double-fronted war against angels and demons.

And that Sam had come back. Had returned to the fight.

_I am here, too._

"You got your wish."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Dean snarled.

Sam forced himself to match his brother's heated stare, made himself stand strong, not back down. "Yeah, I do."

Dean reached up and curled shaking fingers into Sam's shirt, his hands lacking the fire Sam remembered. It wasn't the grip of the brother who had matched him blow for blow before telling him _if you walk out that door…don't you come back._

It wasn't the grip of the brother who had found him—against all odds—the moment Lucifer rose and tugged him close, trying to get them both out of the room before Hell broke loose. It wasn't even the grip of a brother who had hauled him out of harm's way more times than he could count.

It took everything in Sam to not close his hands around Dean's fists.

"No," Dean growled. "You. Don't."

The anger that had been simmering in the wake of Castiel's words and Sam's own helplessness snapped, releasing a fissure of frustration inside of him.

"Okay, fine! Maybe you're right, Dean," Sam said, hearing his voice flinch, and then harden. "Maybe I don't know what it's like…to be skinned," he said, the rock in his belly completely filling his gut as Dean lost what little color he'd gained. "Maybe I don't know what it's like to scream for help and have no one hear me."

"How do you…." Dean dropped his hands, stumbling backward, only stopping when his thighs hit the table behind him and halted his motion.

Sam took a step forward, pressing the issue. "But I do know what it's like to cut another person just to make the pain go away."

"Shut up, Sam."

He heard the edge curve around Dean's words, and kept going.

"Maybe I don't know what's it's like to dig my way out of a grave—"

"You _shut the fuck up_, Sam!" Dean pushed at him, his hands clumsy against Sam's damp shirt.

"—but I do know how much it sucks to face people again after they found out what I'd done."

Dean's fist lacked force, but his aim was true. Sam felt the crack across his cheekbone and he took a staggering step backwards. He looked back at Dean, watching as his brother's lips twitched with anger, his eyes large in his pale face.

For a long moment, the only noise in the abandoned warehouse was the far-away sound of rain and thunder. They stared at each other, Dean breathing hard, his tattered shirt fluttering against his bruised, bared torso. Sam resisted the urge to touch his throbbing eye.

After a moment, Sam took a chance. "How you feeling now?"

"What?" Dean blinked at him.

"Pissed? Scared? Confused?"

Dean closed his mouth, looking away. Sam saw his shoulders drop.

"You _still_ _feel_, Dean," Sam continued. "You aren't disappearing."

The rain beat against the temporary silence.

"They can't take it all away from you," Sam said softly. "And we're going to take the rest back."

Dean nodded once, not exactly agreeing with him, but not arguing either. His expression was tense, careful. It was the same expression he'd held when Sam met him in the abandoned lot. When Dean had handed over the demon-killing knife, trusting him. Wanting him back. Nausea rolled through Sam, making him sweat.

After a moment, Dean looked down at his bandaged side. "Sorry I hit you."

"'S okay," Sam replied, touching his face carefully. "I deserved it."

Dean huffed slightly, looking around. "Yeah, you did."

There was a strange energy shimmering between them, something that warned Sam that he basically just lit a fuse and that he was ill equipped to keep from getting burned.

"You wanna change your clothes?" Sam started to move toward the parked Impala.

Dean held up a hand, instinct and automatic reaction apparently overriding sensation. "I'll get it." He turned his hand over, studying it once more, the knuckles now red from where they'd made contact with Sam's cheek. Without looking at him, Dean said, "Thanks for stitching me up."

Sam shrugged. "Couldn't let you bleed all over your car."

Dean nodded again, his quiet unnerving. Sam thought of the weeks he'd spent away, working a normal job, returning to an empty motel room, dreaming of Jessica until the Devil found him.

It had been so quiet.

When he'd finally called his brother—already on his way to find him—the noise that seemed to simply follow Dean around was like a sigh of relief. He needed that now. The noise that was his brother.

"We're gonna get out of this mess, Dean," Sam stressed, once more reaching out, resting his fingers on Dean's arm, closing his eyes briefly when Dean didn't react. "Cas is getting the stuff we need to summon the demon."

Dean moved away, Sam's hand slipping free, unnoticed.

"He shouldn't have told you that stuff," Dean said quietly, having apparently surmised how Sam had known even a fraction of the tortured he'd endured.

_No, _you_ should have. _Sam rolled his bottom lip against his teeth. "It's not like I didn't know some of it anyway."

Dean looked at him out of the corner of his eyes, the broken blood vessels in his left one giving him a slightly sinister appearance in the strange, borrowed light of the room.

"I was in control of what you knew before," Dean said, his eyes sliding away, landing on nothing. "Starting to think there's not much I _can_ control anymore."

Sam frowned as Dean made his way over to the wet bags sitting in the discarded pile just beyond the trunk of the car, thinking about what Dean had said. He forced himself to calm down from the inside out, once again regaining control of the anger that had threatened to control _him_ so many times before.

"Well," he leaned against the barricade of tables. "You can control if the angels use you as a vessel."

"True."

"And you can control the next place we go from here," Sam continued.

Dean glanced at him, pulling off his ruined shirt with more ease than Sam knew he would have if all had been right in his world. "Which will _not_ be anyplace we've been in the last month or so. Pretty much done with random demons stealing bodies to try to kill me."

He bent over to grab a shirt from the wet duffel bag and Sam saw a bright spot of blood appear on his bandage. Before Sam could say anything, though, Dean pulled the wet garment over his head, the darkened material clinging to his body. He looked down at himself.

"Guess it's good I can't tell how uncomfortable this is," he muttered.

Sam slid off the table, gathering the medical supplies. "We need to be ready to move when Cas gets back."

He heard a click behind him, and turned to see Dean holding his 1911, sliding the chamber back and frowning.

"Everything is wet." Dean's brow was puckered as he crouched down to pull out the rest of the weapons Sam had hastily thrown into the duffel bags.

"Well, don't know if you noticed," Sam remarked, beginning to move toward his brother, the first aid kit in his arms, "but it's been rain—"

"Doesn't help that it's been raining for like four days," Dean said, stepping on the end of Sam's sentence.

Sam stopped short.

Dean continued to set out the weapons, moving clumsily as if there were boxing gloves on his normally nimble fingers.

Sam took a breath. "Dean."

Dean paused and glanced up. "Yeah?"

Sam exhaled. "I just thought—" He stopped again when Dean frowned and shook his head, as if trying to rid his ears of water. "Dean?"

Slowly, as if afraid it would explode, Dean set the gun he'd been holding down on the dry, dusty warehouse floor.

"Son of a bitch." He rubbed at his left ear, then his right.

As Sam watched, Dean pushed to his feet, wavering, then lifted his eyes. "Is it still raining?"

Not taking his eyes from his brother's, Sam nodded, all-too aware of the sound of thunder rolling behind the heavy splashes of rain against the windows at the top of the building.

Dean closed his eyes, swaying slightly. "I was afraid of that."

www

It was as if he were standing in the middle of a transparent balloon.

Opening his eyes, Dean glanced over at his car, lifting his hand and resting his against her black skin, water droplets having dried in streaks in the time they'd been hiding inside the warehouse. He couldn't feel her warmth, but he appreciated the resistance. The support. The non-verbal _I'm still here…I'll always be here._

The rain that had been so loud moments ago was muted, distant. If he held his breath, he could still hear it, but barely. Swallowing a roll of nausea, he looked at Sam.

"Say something." He could still hear his own voice, trapped inside his head as if he were listening to a TV set from an adjacent room.

Sam opened his mouth, then closed it once more, eyes darting quickly in thought. "We have to figure out how we're going to make that demon give up the antidote," he said.

It was like listening to someone underwater. He got the gist of Sam's words, if not the distinct words themselves.

Holding very still, oddly afraid he'd lose even that connection, Dean nodded. "And just hope she didn't hide it five states away."

"It's a second dose of the virus," Sam revealed.

"Swell," Dean muttered, rolling his eyes. He had yet to step away from the support of the Impala. "'Cause the first dose was so much fun."

"That bad, huh?" Sam's eyes tracked to Dean's chest.

Dean reached up to touch the remembered bruise. "It was like getting humped in the neck by a porcupine, Sam."

Sam lifted a shoulder. "Bright side? You won't feel it."

"Now who's Mr. Silver Lining?"

Sam's flinch was his only warning that there was someone else in the room. Dean turned, following his brother's rapid look, and saw Castiel standing near the abandoned trolley tracks just beyond the Impala. He was wet, dried blood on his mouth, and his hair was shoved back from his forehead as if sent there by anxious fingers.

He gripped a gym bag in one hand; Dean guessed that to be the items they'd need to summon the demon. He felt lightheaded, remembering her anger, her hatred, the way she cursed at him, her scream so loud as he cut into her that it had literally made his ears bleed. He knew why she wanted revenge.

And part of him didn't blame her.

Dean looked over at Sam, saw his brother was speaking, but couldn't pick up on the words. There was a sensation of water in his ears, flowing around his head, building fast. He felt himself drowning.

"Sam?"

The fact that his brother turned to face him was the only proof Dean had that he'd actually spoke out loud. He couldn't even hear his own voice anymore. The balloon was complete: he could see the world, but he was not a part of it.

Stepping away from the Impala, Dean staggered, his vision tilting as the world shifted around him. He couldn't keep his balance, his stomach rolling with the lost equilibrium. It seemed unfair that he couldn't detect touch, but he could still feel nauseous. He took a step toward Sam and nearly fell, caught by something.

Looking unsteadily over his shoulder, Dean saw Castiel next to him, his face covered in a sheen of sweat, his hands gripping Dean's arm and side. Looking directly into Castiel's eyes, Dean dropped his guard, for just one moment, and let the fear and anger and pain that had been tightening around his heart since he'd woken up in Raya's apartment shine out.

He watched Castiel absorb it, his nostrils flaring slightly as if breathing it in, his head drawing back as if it were too much. The angel's eyes softened. And Dean heard his friend's voice, clear in his mind, like ice crystals on snow.

"I've got you, Dean."

Dean closed his eyes, nodding. When he opened them again, he was sitting on the ground, propped up by what he assumed was the Impala, without connection, looking back at his brother and his friend.

Something was wrong. Sam's face was lined, his eyes small, his lips thin. He only held that look, Dean knew, when he was both scared _and_ out of options. Dean couldn't see Castiel's face, but whatever the angel was telling Sam caused the blood to drain from Sam's face and turned Dean's heart sideways.

Looking up, he found the door handle of the Impala and reached for it. He was spinning, the world turning three beats faster than it was supposed to, just enough to make even the simple attempt of _grab handle, grip handle_ into a forced agenda. Pulling himself to his feet, he breathed through his mouth, staving off the nausea and turning to face the other two men.

"Sam."

Sam's hazel eyes shot over to him, but then back to Castiel as he snapped off several rapid words.

"Sam!"

Dean knew he was speaking. He couldn't hear his own voice in his head. He couldn't even feel the vibration of sound in his throat. But he knew because every time he said his brother's name, the soft skin around Sam's eyes tightened. It had been this way their entire lives: Sam always responded to Dean's saying his name.

But this time, Sam was focusing on something else, something more important, something that Dean didn't understand.

And that pissed him off.

_Look at me, dammit!_

"_SAM!_"

He put as much effort as he could into the cry, bending from the waist as he punched the sound into the silence surrounding him. Castiel and Sam both turned to face him.

And then the world seemed to explode.

Lightning flashed—bright, blinding, leaving negative imprints on Dean's eyes—inside the warehouse. He saw wind slashed at their bodies, sweeping Castiel's trench coat behind him in a twisted tail and pressing Sam's loose shirt against his skin.

Gripping his ears, his face fisted in pain, Sam went to his knees. Castiel whipped around to face the entry to the warehouse, situated several feet behind the Impala. Dean's eyes were pinned to his brother, confusion as to what was causing him such pain evaporating as he watched the windows from the top of the warehouse rain down on them in a shower of glass.

Hurrying forward on wooden, uncooperative legs, his balance shot but his focus keen, Dean staggered to Sam, dropping to his knees and protecting his brother the only way he could. He curved his body around Sam's bowed shoulders, putting his hands over Sam's, forcing himself to press hard, working to close out what he knew now was the voice of an angel.

Glass fell on and around their bodies as Sam curled into himself, his eyes closed tight, his mouth opened in what appeared to be a silent scream.

_The windows_, Dean realized.

The angel's voice had shattered the windows that flanked each side of the top of the warehouse, sending the glass down to cover them in deadly droplets. He spared a fleeting thought for his Impala, hoping the voice hadn't shattered her windows as well.

Dean wasn't sure if the glass cut either of them—something told him he couldn't afford to lose much more blood and he desperately needed Sam to stay whole. He shifted up close to Sam, keeping his hands over Sam's, working to stave off what he knew all-too-well as a soul-piercing screech of sound.

He lifted his eyes to find Castiel and was dismayed to see his friend pushing himself to his feet as if he'd been slapped down, turning furious eyes toward a shadowed figure. Castiel spoke and Dean jerked, startled by the sound of the throaty voice inside his cotton-wrapped world.

"You achieve nothing by being here."

Swallowing, Dean looked toward the shadow, narrowing his eyes as he tried to make out the human features of this angel's chosen vessel. Castiel had told Sam he'd had a source, that there had been someone who'd warned him about the virus. As Dean stared at the figure, though, a sick feeling grew in his gut. He couldn't hear the other angel's words, but Castiel's reply was all he really needed.

"Dean is the only one who can decide that. _He_ has to be the one to say _yes _to Michael."

Something forcibly shoved his hand away from Sam's ears and Dean looked down, realizing that Sam was trying to shift to his knees. Dean dropped his hands and Sam instantly flinched, curling into himself once more, drawing his forehead down to his knees. Dean wrapped around his brother, tucking Sam's head against his chest, keeping his hands in place and glaring at the shadow.

"You arrogant sonuvabitch," he muttered, not knowing or caring if this new angel could hear him.

Castiel shot a look over his shoulder at Dean and then was suddenly shoved aside with enough force that he folded in half like a broken doll and slipped quickly into the darkness at the edge of Dean's sight. Dean felt his breath catch against his teeth as he fought for control of his fear.

The shadow suddenly glowed, the shards of glass lifting from Sam's body, hair, from Dean's arms, from the ground around them. Dean blinked, narrowing his eyes as the glass floated up, watching as it seemed to blend with the rain that now fell into the warehouse through the broken windows. The glass and water began to spin until Dean found himself forced to blink, unable to focus on the cyclone that filled the air, narrowing to a point just above where the new angel stood.

Dean looked at him, able to see him now as the electric sign from outside caught on the thousand points of light emanating from the angel-powered storm raging silently above him. The man the angel had chosen was dressed in flannel and overalls, looked to be in his mid-fifties, with thinning brown hair and non-descript features. Dean felt a tug of pity for him; anything he'd been before, anything he'd hoped to be, was gone now.

Erased by the presence of an angel.

"Am I supposed to be impressed?" Dean said. Shouted. He wasn't certain. He just forced the words loose.

The angel spoke, tilting its head like a curious dog. Dean lifted an eyebrow, instinctively ordering his muscles to tighten around his brother, pulling him closer.

"Hate to break it to you, pal, but for all I know, you're singing _Sweet Child of Mine_."

The angel stopped speaking and Dean saw the glass tornado shoot overhead, bypassing each of them. He turned his head to watch the mess of deadly shards land in a heap on the far corner of the room, sparing them. He whipped his head back, recoiling when he found himself face-to-face with the new angel.

"Whatever you want," Dean said, feeling short of breath, "you're not gonna get it."

The angel spoke again, and Dean blinked in surprise at the half-smile he saw shift across the angel's mouth. Before he could think of anything else to say, the angel was gone. Dean sat still, Sam curled against his body, his world shifting steadily around him as if the loss of his hearing had tweaked something deeper inside, something that had always kept him steady, sure, in stride with his place in the universe.

Something moved his hands, and he looked down to see Sam unsteadily pushing Dean back and away. Dean dropped his hands and waited as Sam managed to crawl upright, his face sweat-covered, his shoulders moving as he drew in large breaths. Sam spoke, his lips moving in what could only be a plea for reassurance.

"He's—it's…the angel's gone," Dean told him, pinning his eyes to Sam's face, his mouth, needing that connection to the world so desperately he was scaring himself.

Sam was touching him, lifting his shirt, moving his head one way, then the other. It took Dean a moment to register that his brother was checking for new wounds from the falling glass. He opened his mouth to tell Sam that he was fine when it occurred to him that he could have a six inch blade buried in his back and the only way he'd know is if he passed out from blood loss.

He sat still as Sam's quick fingers checked and reassured them both that Dean had no new holes in him. Sam ruffled his own hair, searching for latent glass.

"You're okay, Sam. The angel, it…all the glass is over there."

Dean reached up, gripping the back of his brother's neck, moving his hand so that Sam's head wobbled. Sam winced and Dean made himself lessen his grip, watching as Sam reached up and clapped a hand on Dean's shoulder, sliding his hand down the front of Dean's chest. It was like looking out through someone else's eyes. Sam rubbed his face, mumbling something, and Dean watched each motion, each movement.

Dean watched his brother's mouth, fear slicing through him as he worked to keep up. Suddenly Sam opened his eyes wide, and Dean saw a name on his brother's lips. He echoed the realization.

"Cas!"

"Over there." Dean pointed to the shadows where he'd seen his friend thrown.

Sam scrambled, all legs and arms and _hurry_, and moved in the direction Dean indicated, the dark swallowing him whole before Dean could get to his feet. Stumbling forward, Dean breathed through his mouth as his lungs seemed to grow heavier, and fell to his knees next to Sam and Castiel.

The angel was unconscious, though no other markings or wounds were visible. Sam was frowning, cupping Castiel's face gently, speaking, though Dean had no idea what words were being said. Panic began to climb his spine, perch in the back of his throat, scratch at his eyes. He couldn't quite seem to steady his breathing. He _needed _to know what Sam was saying_._

It was the only way he could decide what to do next. How to fix this.

Because he _had to_ fix it.

This was happening to them because of _him_. Because he'd had a chance for mercy and he'd chosen wrath. Because he'd wanted the pain to go away. Because he'd wanted to feel nothing.

And he'd told her that.

She cursed at him, accused him of the one thing he truly feared beyond all else: that he'd become one of _them_. She'd pleaded with him, begging him to stop. All he'd wanted was for _her_ to stop talking. To stop screaming.

So he'd made her stop.

"Adonael."

Dean jerked, brought roughly back to the present by the sound of Castiel's gruff voice in his head. He looked at Sam, then back at Castiel who was blinking himself aware.

"His name is Adonael. He leads a garrison."

Sam reached forward, easing Castiel away from the wall. Dean watched Castiel slump slightly forward, then gather himself. He was speaking, Dean realized belatedly. He was speaking to Sam and Dean couldn't hear the words inside his head.

"Cas!" Dean shoved at the woozy angel's shoulder. "Don't shut me out, man."

He saw Sam look at him, confused. Brow puckered, shadows dancing across his face from the rain-drenched light spilling in from above, Sam began talking to him, reaching out and gripping Dean's arm, pulling at him.

"I…I can't…," Dean shook his head helplessly, darting his eyes from Sam's mouth to his brother's eyes, trying to find sense in the torrent of words. Sam slid closer, moving his hands to Dean's shirt. Dean glanced down and saw Sam's fingers curled in damp cotton. His head bounced slightly as Sam shook him, still talking, still silent.

Dean looked back at Sam, shaking his head as Sam slid one and down to Dean's arm, pulling at it. "Jesus Christ, Sam, please…just stop!" Dean jerked his arm free. "I can't hear you, man. I'm sorry, but…."

Sam looked at Castiel, who offered him an explanation that Dean missed. Sam sat back on his heels, dropping his head forward and shoving his fingers into his hair, the heels of his hands digging into his eyes. Dean began to back away, his movements awkward, clumsy, sluggish as if alcohol flowed through his system and not a strange, demonic virus.

Castiel was struggling to his feet. Sam was supporting him. Neither of them glanced at Dean. But Dean couldn't take his eyes off of them. They were his lifeline. They were his only connection. Crab-crawling away from them, he kept moving backwards until he was met with resistance, unable to move further.

Craning his neck, he saw that he was once again up against the Impala, her windows intact. He quickly looked back toward Sam, terrified that he might lose sight of his brother. Terrified that he needed this so badly; that he'd lost everything else. Everything that made him _real._

This was what they'd tried to do to him for forty years. Take away everything that made him whole, made him _human_. They'd tried with pain and they'd tried with deprivation. They'd tried with taunts and they'd tried with orders. They'd used his fears and his weaknesses against him. They'd put his shortcomings on display and wrapped his doubts in pretty packages.

But he'd fought and he'd survived. He'd returned to the world only to come close to losing Sam. He'd allowed the self-righteousness of survival turn him into an echo of himself, gripping that persona tightly up until the moment he found out that Sam had given in.

Until he saw the Devil look back at him from his brother's eyes.

He wasn't going to get back into his life only to lose to the treachery of a demon. He wasn't going to let Sam fight this battle without him. He wasn't going to lose himself. Not again.

www

"What do you mean, he can hear you? Just you?"

"If I allow it," Castiel answered, his voice a wince as Sam steadied him on his feet, "he can hear my voice."

Sam glanced at Dean, heard him working to calm his rapid breathing, but decided against reaching out to him again—the fear and panic lacing Dean's expression and voice had Sam coming undone. Instead he turned his attention back to Castiel.

"What the hell was all that, Cas? Why is some angel—"

"Adonael."

"I don't give a shit what his name is!" Sam yelled. "Is he your source? About the virus?"

Castiel nodded, his face lined with true exhaustion. "I did tell you that you would not like him."

"Why did he come here? Why did he hurt you?" Sam kept his hand on Castiel's upper arm, slightly unnerved by the fact that it seemed the angel needed the support.

"He came for Dean."

"What?"

Sam shot a glance over to his brother, surprised to see that he was now backed against the Impala, hands braced at his sides, rhythmically dragging in measured breaths, his face pale in the odd light slipping through the windowless walls. Pulling Castiel with him, Sam made his way toward Dean, watching how his brother's large eyes followed him closely.

"What do you mean he came for Dean?"

Castiel stood, his shoulders bowed, and looked at Dean. "I wasn't…warned about the virus." By the quick, surprised jerk of Dean's head and the way his eyes widened as he stared at Castiel, Sam surmised that his brother was hearing the same thing he was. "I…discovered…the information. I wasn't as careful with my retreat this last time."

"So all that stuff about…some of your brothers understanding your search," Sam frowned. "It was all a lie?"

Castiel looked over at him. "No. That part is true. Adonael is just not one of them."

"Lemme guess…this guy's on Zach's side, huh?" Dean spoke up, his voice like sandpaper on rock.

Sam glanced at him, aware that he was seeing Dean as close to the edge of losing control as his brother had ever been. He was trembling visibly, his lips lined with a bluish tinge. His fingers flexed against the ground as if he were consciously reminding himself that the ground was, indeed, _there_.

Castiel closed his eyes, then pulled himself straighter, squaring his shoulders. He looked at Sam, renewed strength in his gaze. "Adonael saw the virus as a potential for weakening Dean's resolve. He came now because Dean is vulnerable."

"Cas?" Dean called. "Hey! Don't…what are you saying?"

Ignoring him, Castiel continued. "If they strip away everything that makes Dean human, he will have much less reason to resist."

Darting his eyes between Dean and Castiel, Sam asked, "But why would Michael want a human vessel without his senses?"

"Michael would make his vessel…whole."

"Sam?" Dean called his name, his voice quavering with tension.

Sam saw him using the Impala to stand, but couldn't bring himself to move to help. The implication of what Castiel was saying had begun to sink in.

"And this demon…she's just, what? A means to an end? You guys working _together_ on this?"

"The angels are not working with the demon," Castiel said, tiredly. "It is seeking revenge for what happened in Hell. That…and protection through this artifact."

"So…you're saying that the angels knew about this…demonic virus," Sam said, looking at the floor, but seeing his brother tied to a chair, neck and shoulder bruised from the injection needle. "And instead of warning _you_…they allowed the demon to find Dean?"

"Sam." Dean's voice was harder now, the edge of it cutting through the air like the glass that had fallen moments ago.

"Yes," Castiel admitted softly.

"And this Adonael guy…how'd he find us?"

"He found me," Castiel said, looking away. "I…triggered him when I gathered the items we'd need to summon the demon." He gestured to the gym bag discarded on the floor next to the damp duffels.

Sam felt the anger of earlier resurging, refocusing, centered on Castiel. "So he found out you'd been spying, and came to give you a beat down, that it?"

"And to get Dean to say yes to Michael," Castiel looked over at Dean, evidently allowing his words to be heard. Sam saw his brother pull away, his eyes going solid with resolve.

"Like hell," Dean whispered.

"'Cause he thought the virus had almost taken away what made him human," Sam concluded, his eyes on his brother.

Dean looked back at him and Sam felt that same shimmer slide through the air between them. His breath caught and for a moment he felt certain that all of the anger and darkness he'd allowed to sneak in while Dean had been unconscious was lying naked and exposed in his eyes.

"Yes," Castiel replied.

"He's not gonna let us get the antidote is he?" Sam asked softly. "He'll find the demon before we do."

"We don't work that way," Castiel protested.

"We?" Sam countered, glancing at Castiel. "Seems like you made a choice sometime back, Cas."

"_Angels_ don't work that way. He won't work with the demon."

Sam looked back at Dean. "Will they save him?"

Castiel was quiet.

"Cas," Sam reached out and tugged Castiel's sleeve. "If we run out of time…will the angels save my brother?"

Castiel looked at him. "I do not know. Once I would have thought yes, but…," he looked down. "Adonael is a general. If he has chosen this path, then…I don't know what to think of the choices my brothers might make."

"What made him leave?" Sam asked, speaking slowly, watching Dean's eyes hit his lips, watching his brother listen the only way he could. "I couldn't hear anything except that…screeching sound."

"Angel's voice," Dean replied.

Sam nodded.

"Dean made him leave," Castiel said.

"How?" Sam looked away for a moment, glancing in surprise at Castiel.

"Essentially," Castiel shrugged, looking at Dean. "He told him to go to Hell."

Sam choked on a spurt of laughter, then looked back at his brother, feeling tears burn the back of his eyes. He knew Dean's hands had pressed down over his, keeping the inhuman sound from bursting his eardrums. He'd been tucked up against Dean's body as the angel rained glass down on them.

The demon's virus had taken away four of his brother's five sense and yet he still fought, still worked to protect Sam.

"That's because none of them know what makes us human," he said to Dean, his voice soft because it didn't matter; his eyes full because it did.

Dean swallowed roughly, and for a split second, Sam allowed himself to believe that there had been a mistake—the virus wouldn't kill Dean, the angels would intervene and save him, it was all going to be okay.

"You might be singing a different tune," came a female voice, "if you'd seen your precious brother in action."

Sam jerked, surprised, and saw Dean frown out of the corner of his eyes, following his motion. Castiel turned slowly. All of them faced a blonde woman, dressed in black, who stepped from the rain, through the shadows, and into the borrowed light of the room. Sam knew who she was—_what_ she was—before she said anything else. He looked hurriedly at the entrance and realized that Adonael's aeronautical display of power had erased the protective salt line.

"Son of a bitch," Dean practically growled.

"Not exactly," the woman said, moving closer.

Sam found it hard to take a breath; the slim build, the guileless smile, the long blonde hair…if she smelled like lilies he knew he would come apart. She could have been Jessica's sister.

Moving closer, the woman smiled at Sam. "What's the matter, Sammy? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"You," Sam forced himself to take a breath, "were at the motel. Weren't you?"

"Been tracking you," she nodded. "Harder to find than I thought. So, y'know, kudos to you."

"Guess we don't need this," Dean muttered, kicking the gym bag away, and glancing askance at Castiel.

Sparing a thought for what gathering those ingredients had cost the angel, Sam took a step toward the woman, purposely putting his body in front of Dean. "What do we call you?"

"Ask your brother," the woman sneered, looking over Sam's shoulder. "I told him everything."

Sam heard a gasping, strangled sound and stumbled aside as Dean was pulled forward, trying to grab anything to halt his movement. Sam reached out to him, but Dean's body was flung aside, crashing against one of the rusty boxcars cars on the far side of the room.

"Stop!" Sam yelled, oddly dismayed when Dean didn't so much as cry out with the impact. The only sound was a rough gasp as he worked to catch his breath.

"Wait." Castiel lifted a hand. "We can give you the Eye of God."

Sam looked at the angel in shock.

"Now," the woman declared. "I want it now."

Castiel shook his head. "Give us the antidote first."

"You've already managed to attract the attention of an archangel," the woman scoffed. "Let's not waste time bargaining. Give me the Eye and Hero over here gets to feel things again."

"You expect us to trust you?" Sam spat. "You don't get a thing until you give us the antidote."

"Trust is a two way street, kiddo," the blonde sneered. "You gotta give a little to get a little."

"You already have the advantage," Sam countered, searching for a way to get around her and get to Dean. "Just…c'mon, leave him alone. Give us the antidote."

"You have the Eye?"

Sam darted a look to Castiel.

"We can get it for you," Sam hedged.

"You've had almost two days," the blonde scoffed. "What are you waiting for? Heavenly intervention?"

The boxcar rattled and Sam shot his eyes to Dean; his brother was jerking, thrashing against the demon's hold, working to free himself.

The woman moved closer to Dean, shadows dancing across her face, exposing the evil creature using the human body like a puppet. Dean pulled his face up, twisting it away as she reached up to trace a finger down the side of his face. Sam knew that his brother couldn't feel her touch, but the sheer disgust on Dean's face seemed to tell a different story.

"Did you tell your brother how you cut into my body? How you ignored my cries? How I begged you to stop and you just closed your eyes…and took me apart."

Sam felt his heart turn over, his stomach clench. The demon spread her fingers at the base of Dean's chin, and then wrapped them almost gently around Dean's throat.

"Whatever you're saying to them," Dean rasped, "you weren't innocent."

"We're all innocent," the demon hissed. "Until we burn into this."

"You killed a priest," Dean went on, "and then sacrificed souls to get out of your deal."

"And you're so much better?" The demon countered. She looked over her shoulder at Sam. "Seems to me the word was your brother tried everything to free you," she looked at Castiel, "and the angel that hauled your skinny ass out of the Pit isn't allowed to go home," she returned her eyes to Dean and Sam saw him pull back. "And you sure as hell didn't escape without blood on your hands. _My_ blood."

Castiel moved forward again, but this time the demon lifted a hand, pointing at him.

"I may not be able to stop you," she growled, "but I can do plenty of damage to these two before you get to me."

"This isn't our first rodeo," Sam shot back. "We can take care of ourselves."

The demon squeezed Dean's throat and Sam felt himself go cold as he heard the rattle of breath in Dean's chest. He curled his fingers into fists, eyes searching the room for something he could use as a weapon.

"Doesn't…work," Dean wheezed.

"What?" The woman turned back to him. "What was that?" Sam saw her squeeze harder.

"Eye of…God…doesn't…work…."

The woman blinked, her grip relaxing slightly. Sam bent low, his fingers skimming the ground until he found Dean's 1911 where his brother had set it out to dry. He knew it wouldn't kill her, but he was banking on it distracting her long enough that they could get her away from Dean. He cursed himself for not having the foresight to protect the warehouse with a Devil's Trap.

"You're lying."

"Kill…me…or not," Dean gasped. "Doesn't matter."

The woman released him and Sam heard Dean's feet hit the ground seconds before his brother fell to his knees, opening up the shot for Sam. He pulled the gun up and fired.

The gun clicked uselessly. Sam swore, remembering Dean's lament that everything—even his weapon—had gotten wet.

The blonde demon slid a smirk over her shoulder as Dean coughed roughly, working to pull air into his body. Sam watched him lift his eyes to the demon.

"You're going back to Hell, bitch."

The woman crouched down until she was eyelevel with Dean.

"You still wonder if you made love to me or her, don't you?" The woman whispered. Dean simply stared at her; the fact that he couldn't hear the words didn't erase the look of hatred that was fixed on his face. "I suppose you'll never _really_ know."

"Maybe not. But_ I_ will."

Sam turned quickly, instinctively training his weapon on the new voice. He pulled the point of the pistol up quickly when he recognized the dark-haired woman standing just inside the doorway, rain slicking her hair to her head, .38 pointed at the blonde.

"Raya?" Sam cried. He looked from the detective to Dean to Castiel and back. "Are we Lo-Jacked or something?"

The blonde demon stood, raising her arm. Raya fired two quick bursts, not hesitating, her aim true. The demon bucked, falling backwards.

Sam rushed across the room to Dean, grabbing his brother's upper arms and pulling him to his feet. It was like balancing a drunken man: Dean was wobbly at best, clutching at Sam's shirt for steadiness. Sam ducked under his brother's arm, supporting him as they looked toward the demon.

The blonde didn't stay down long. Before Raya could reposition around Sam and Dean for another shot, it surged upward, eyes black.

"That _hurt,_ you bitch!"

"Damn," Raya countered, not lowering her weapon. "It was supposed to kill you."

"Raya, you can't—" Sam started.

The blonde demon crossed the room in a heartbeat, her eyes boring into Sam's. "Your brother is dying," she interrupted him. "If you want that antidote, you meet me at the corner of Nickel and Strand in one hour. Bring the Eye of God, or I destroy the antidote."

Raya stumbled backwards as the demon crashed into her, exiting the warehouse too fast for any of them to catch her.

"Sam," Castiel said suddenly. "He is bleeding again."

"Dammit," Sam grumbled. "C'mon, Dean."

He tugged on Dean's arm, moving toward the Impala at the same time, trying to get Dean's attention. Dean nodded, his eyes down. He'd seen the blood.

"What's the matter with him?" Raya holstered her weapon and moved further into the warehouse, her boots clunking against the floor boards as she approached.

Sam glanced over at her. "You bring your friends with you?"

"Don't have a lot of those right now," Raya replied. "It's just me."

"How'd you find us?"

Sam propped Dean against the Impala's trunk, noting the way his brother kept shaking his head, blinking his eyes wide as if he couldn't focus. He had yet to mention Raya; Sam was beginning to wonder if he'd noticed her.

He lifted Dean's shirt, moving the gauze away. Two of the stitches had pulled loose. Raya hissed in sympathy.

"How'd that happen?"

"It's too complicated to explain," Sam sighed, thinking of the series of random events that had culminated in his brother's battered state. "Cas, can you—"

"Salt," Castiel said. "Yes."

"Salt?" Raya frowned, reaching out to hold up Dean's shirt as Sam dug through the first aid kit for the sutures and bandages.

Sam saw Dean's eyes hit Raya's face, and watched as his expression closed up, folded inward. He didn't say a word, and Sam found that he suddenly had trouble breathing. He needed Dean to keep fighting. He needed Dean's voice. He needed the noise.

"Keeps the demons out," Sam explained.

Raya nodded slowly. "Okay, next grocery trip? I stock up."

"How'd you find us?" Sam repeated, setting the supplies next to Dean on the Impala's trunk.

"I'm a cop, remember?" Raya handed Sam suture kit as Dean leaned backwards across the car, giving his brother access to his wounded side. "I woke up and those two bodies were gone. I needed to know what the hell happened to me."

She paused a moment as Sam began to stitch, keeping Dean's shirt up and out of the way. "I just started retracing your steps. Found out what motel you were staying at, got there right after the squad guys. Saw blondie beating the hell out of the maintenance man to find out where you'd gone, so I followed her."

"She tracked the virus," Castiel reminded Sam.

"Yeah, I figured that," Sam muttered, tying off the stitches and reaching for a new bandage. "So glad you went and accidentally signaled your friend the archangel. That worked out great."

"This series of events was completely unpredictable," Castiel said.

"I know," Sam sighed, taping the bandage in place.

He nodded to Raya who dropped Dean's shirt and stepped back. Dean's narrowed eyes were trained on a point just beyond him, brow furrowed as if in thought. Gripping his brother's shoulder, Sam shook Dean slightly to get his attention.

"You're set," he said as clearly as possible.

"What's the plan?" Dean rasped.

Sam flinched. Dean may not be able to feel the hell he'd had been through, but his body didn't know that. His voice _was_ pain.

"What's this antidote she was yammering about?" Raya asked.

Sam kept his eyes on Dean, aware of the other two people in the room, but looking only at his brother. Time had ticked away from them before and he'd lost Dean then. He wasn't going to lose his brother this time. No matter what it cost him.

"They injected Dean with a virus. It's killing him."

"I won't let it beat me, Sam," Dean vowed quietly, continually narrowing his eyes as if to focus. "I can't, not now."

Sam's jaw was tight as he nodded. "I'll meet her. I'll get it from her."

"How?" Castiel asked.

The room seemed to shift around Sam, the almost visible shimmer of energy between himself and Dean twisting, coiling, tightening.

"Any way I have to," Sam said, knowing he could do it. Knowing _how_ to do it.

Dean shook his head. "No, Sam."

It didn't matter that he couldn't hear him; Sam knew that Dean would follow his thoughts from point to point until it led to demon blood.

"I have to save you, Dean," Sam whispered, willing his brother to understand.

Dean blinked his eyes wide, reaching up a clumsy hand to wipe at them.

Sam frowned. "Dean?"

"You can't…," Dean shook his head again, blinking, then peering with narrowed eyes at Sam. "You can't do that again. Not for me. Not for this. Don't let this send you back there."

"I'm getting the antidote," Sam vowed. "I'm not losing you again, man. I _can't_."

He began to step away, acutely aware of Raya's eyes and Castiel's silence. Dean's arm swept out toward him, grabbing at him—and missing. Sam went cold. He slowly took Dean's arm, feeling his brother tremble beneath his fingers.

"Dean?"

"Son of a…." Dean's curse faded as he shook his head again, reaching up to wipe at his eyes.

Sam felt himself sink as Dean's his blood-red eye began to water. With a quick, desperate motion, Dean stared around him, narrowing his eyes in the direction of darkened corners, lifting his face to the light from above. He face completely drained of color.

"Oh, fuck, Sam."

Sam stepped back at the desolation he heard in Dean's voice. He didn't release his brother's arm; even though he knew his grip couldn't be felt, he was afraid that if he let go Dean truly would fade away.

"It's…it's gone," Dean choked out. "It's gone."

"Oh, God," Sam breathed. _No…no no no…it's too fast it's too soon I need him not yet not yet not—_

"Everything just…melted," Dean revealed, his voice a breathy waver of confession. "And then…you were gone."

Sam stood completely still, gripping Dean's arm, his brother's fingers flexing spasmodically on air, searching. The blue around Dean's lips creeping further into the flesh, contrasting sharply with the death-pale hue of his cheeks. His eyes were wide, the pupils eating away the green.

For several heartbeats, the only sound in the abandoned warehouse was the rain: hitting the roof, slapping the pavement, running down the interior walls from the broken windows above.

And then Dean's voice—a familiar air of toughness wrapping around fear so real it was palpable—called out hesitantly. "Sam? You're still there, right?"

Sam felt air leave him as Dean stumbled sideways with nothing to balance him. Not even the sight of his environment. Sam tightened his grip, and then gently pushed at Dean, backing his brother up against the Impala, desperate to find some way to tell him that he was _still here_.

"I'm gonna fix this, Dean," he vowed, swallowing unbidden tears. "I'm not gonna let them get you. Not again."

"I will help," Castiel said softly from behind him.

"Me too," chimed in Raya.

Sam looked over at her, surprised. "Why?"

Her eyes were pinned to Dean, her face devastated. "Because he didn't walk away when I thought he would." She looked up at Sam. "And because everything you said about having that…thing…in my body was true."

Sam moved Dean's arm again, not knowing any other way to show his brother that they were together on this. Not able to imagine how alone Dean had to be feeling, cut off from—literally—everything. It was a version of Hell that scared Sam more than he wanted to contemplate.

He pressed down gently on Dean's shoulders until his brother allowed himself to be eased to the ground, leaning against the wheel well of the Impala.

"Cas?" Sam looked at the angel. "Will you stay with him?"

Castiel frowned. "You will need my help."

"He can hear you, you said," Sam implored. "And I can't…I can't leave him like this…not _alone _like this." Sam glanced at Raya. "Besides…I got the law on my side."

"He isn't going to be happy when he finds out you've gone after the antidote without him," Castiel predicted.

Sam looked at his brother, his stomach hitching at the sight of Dean's searching eyes, seeking something concrete, viable, real. His hands were fisted at his sides, pressing hard enough against the floor to turn the knuckles white. His breath caught and Sam watched him force air out slowly before pulling another in.

_You just keep breathing, Dean._

"He can kick my ass later." Sam looked at the angel. "Cas?"

Castiel looked at him, and Sam felt the angel's blue eyes peel away layers in a glance. "I will stay."

Sam nodded, then moved around to the trunk, lifting the false bottom. Raya followed him.

"You need a spare weapon?" she asked, pulling a .45 from a side holster.

"I got it covered," Sam said, leaning into the trunk and grabbing the demon-killing knife, a rock salt-filled shotgun, his Glock, and Dean's flask of Holy Water.

Raya whistled. "When this is all over, you really should tell me what you two do for a living."

Sam slammed the trunk closed. "We just try not to die."

* * *

**a/n: **Thanks for reading! The final showdown is around the corner. And we climb inside of Dean's sensory-deprived head a bit in the next chapter (the one I've been looking forward to writing since I started this journey).


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer/ Spoilers:** See chapter 1

**WARNING:** This story carries a bit of a darker theme than I've written before; wanted to give you a heads up. I caution for bad words and the like in the chapters to come.

**a/n: **Thanks so much for coming back! I hope you enjoy this chapter. I had to struggle through some different things to get it written to my liking; I hope it's also to yours.

Also, I have been blessed by some extremely talented friends who have contributed to this story with a vid and some art. I will showcase those additions to the story on my LJ once I've completed and posted the final chapter. I hope you'll take a look!

_

* * *

"__As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being.__"_

_Carl Gustav Jung_

www

He was alone in the dark.

There was no light, no sound. Only the disorienting sensation of floating.

He couldn't feel anything he touched—if he touched anything at all. He couldn't smell the dust he knew surrounded him or the rain he knew still hammered against the earth, or the Impala's mechanical grit, or the scent he knew in his bones as his brother's.

His breath tripped inside his chest, as if disoriented as to its exit. He was lost inside the darkness of himself and if he didn't do something—_right the hell now_—he was going to completely lose his shit.

_Move. Arm. Now._

Something stopped him—offered resistance. The Impala? Where was he sitting? He'd lost orientation, lost contact with his environment. Sam had been standing in front of him. Castiel and Raya….

"Sam?" Had his lips even moved?

He couldn't feel his heart. Was it even beating? Was he still alive? He didn't remember actually dying the first time…it was just terror and white-hot pain tearing through him from the Hellhound's claws and then…the chains, the meat-hooks, the horrific sounds of Hell as he called helplessly for Sam.

Maybe he'd died. Maybe the virus had worked that fast. He pulled in a breath, commanding his lungs to fill. If he was breathing, he was alive. He needed to move, needed to stand, needed to run, punch, kick, stab, thrash, _scream_. Frustrated fury built in his chest and he was suddenly cracking with the pressure of it.

He forced himself to clench his teeth, biting back what he was utterly terrified was a whimper. They had left him, he was sure of that. Left to fight the bad guys. Left him in the…where were they? A warehouse?

And he sat as still as possible. Alone.

In the dark.

He was of absolutely no use to anyone. He could affect _nothing_. No wonder they'd left him. Alone. After all…where was he going to go?

_To Hell…._

It was a whisper. But he heard it clearly. He knew that voice. It had been the only voice he'd heard for almost thirty years. And if any demon could fight through obliteration to reach him in the darkness, it would be this one.

Alistair.

_Hell, Dean…. Go directly to Hell, do not pass go…._

Wasn't he already there? Trapped inside his body? How could he do anything now? Anything to protect Sam, to stop the Apocalypse?

_You were meant for me…and I was meant for you…._

The demon sang sickly in his head. He wanted to shake the sound away. But…what if the voice was right? What if the angels were wrong…he wasn't meant to be a Heavenly vessel…he was meant to be demon. Devoid of all humanity. What if he'd lost that spark on the rack? What if when he cut into her, when he'd cut her apart…what if he'd lost what made him…_real_.

_You're mine, Dean. Always have been._

"No." This time he did shake his head. Hard.

Flashes of color slipped across his sightless eyes. Red shimmering on dull silver, wavering and floating as if not truly connected to anything, but wrapping around him all the same. There was an odd—and familiar—sensation of his eyelids being peeled back, prying open eyes that could see nothing concrete, but couldn't look away from a sudden, improbable horror: Sam, stretched out on the rack.

The rack that had broken him. The rack that had haunted him. The rack he'd soaked in the blood of other souls.

His _brother_. Hooks spearing his flesh. Chains holding him fast.

_Or…I could always take another in exchange._

"No!"

He meant to push himself forward, but when he found it impossible to turn his head he realized that he'd toppled, his face meeting the ground. A movable force encountering an immoveable object. He commanded his eyes to close, but he couldn't tell if they obeyed because what he was seeing wasn't real.

It wasn't _now_.

It was _then_ and _soon_ and _never_.

A blade flashed and Sam's head turned toward him, the entire lower portion of his face slick with blood. Bright red. Dripping from his lips over his chin to run down his bared chest, washing away the protective tattoo.

"NO!"

His brother's eyes were gone. Two shadowed voids faced him where once he'd seen sympathy and heart, anger and resistance. Humanity.

The blade flashed and Sam's mouth opened in a silent scream, his body bucking against the chains, thrashing in an effort to escape.

But there was nowhere to go. Dean knew that better than anyone. He _remembered_ that pain. The way it had washed over and through and around. The way it had overcome all else. The way it had ended, with a whispered _yes_.

_How I feel, this...inside me, I wish I couldn't feel anything, Sammy. I wish I couldn't feel a damn thing._

"I take it back."

The knife carved and Sam twisted and blood ran.

"I TAKE IT BACK!"

Blood ran and Sam's grimace of pain turned into a grin, his empty eyes blinking up at him as the smile turned slightly sad and knowing. The smile of the Devil.

_I told you, Dean. We'll always end up…here._

"No…you're not him. He's _not_ you."

_Your brother _will _say yes, Dean. He will become me and no amount of cutting will set him free._

His hand. The knife was _in his hand_. He had cut and sliced and pulled and _his brother_ was on the rack. The rack was the end and the beginning and the epitome of nothing and he'd never left and he was going back there and—

"I've got you, Dean."

A voice. A _true_ voice—not simply the memory of one.

He could turn his head. Something had changed. He could turn his head away from the red and the metal and Sam. It was dark once more. But it was no longer silent.

"Cas?" He could have screamed it.

"I am here."

He suddenly felt lightheaded. It was confusing to be dizzy in the dark when up was down and everything was inside out. He only knew he was sitting because he remembered Sam pushing him down. He only knew he was safe because Castiel's voice was in his head.

"Where's Sam?"

Silence replied.

"Cas!"

"I am here."

"Answer me, then! Where is Sam?"

"He went to retrieve the antidote."

"How?"

_It will be so easy to turn him, Dean…._

He shook his head once more.

_A little demon blood goes a long way._

"Stop it!"

"Dean. Be still."

"What?"

"Do not fight me. I will not leave you."

He'd been fighting? He hadn't even known he was moving.

"You have to take me to him, Cas."

"I cannot."

"You _have_ to."

He'd made a promise—so long ago—to take care of one person. To make sure this person was safe, protected. To make sure this person _lived_. He'd died for that promise.

"I can't let him do this alone."

"He is not alone." Castiel's voice was almost too soft, as if he were whispering through Dean's mind. The words were more essence than substance. And Dean clung to them.

"He doesn't have _me_."

"You are—"

"I'm _nothing_ if I don't do this!" He felt the scream. He _felt_ it. He realized it rasped through him on the edge of a forgotten breath as his lungs stuttered, skidding on thin air.

_Breathe. Now._

He forced his lungs to inflate, pulling oxygen in.

"Breathe, Dean."

He followed the order. As best he could. It was something he was very good at.

"I gotta save him, Cas."

"He is going to save _you_."

He was spinning. The darkness was beginning to churn.

"No…not this way. Not like this. I can't let him—"

He was falling. He couldn't breathe and he was falling—nothing to grab, nothing to hold. No one to hold him. He was going to fall back into the Pit. And no one was going to send an angel after him. No angel was going to want him as their meat suit for the fight of the millennia. He was falling and nothing would save him.

Not even saying _yes_.

"_Breathe, _Dean."

He found that he could. He still remembered how.

If he was breathing, he was alive. If he was alive, he wasn't a demon. But…what kept him human? Feeling? Seeing? Hearing? Connecting to his world?

_We're all we got…we keep each other human._

"It can't end this way, Cas."

"There is no end."

He wanted to laugh. Part of him did. "Oh, _now_ you go all _Matrix_ on me?"

"The story continues. One day, you are simply no longer a part of it."

"Well…it can't be _this_ day."

He was keeping that promise. That promise to protect. He might be simply a shell of a man going insane with the lack of contact, but he was _keeping _his damn _promise_. If he didn't…he may as well have stayed on that rack until Alistair burned his soul from him.

Until his eyes turned black and he truly ceased to feel or care.

_Move. Arm. Now._

He swung his arm out, seeking that same resistance. He remembered the Impala's door handle. Grabbing it, using it, pulling himself up. He pictured it, clear in his mind, and flailed until he once again hit something solid enough to stop his arm.

"Stop it. You will cause yourself more harm."

Castiel was touching him. He was certain of it. It was the only way he could hear the angel's voice. He forced his arms to move again, pushing away, demanding his mind send orders to his uncooperative body.

_Stand. _

_Up._

_Now!_

"You are bleeding again, Dean."

"You think I give a _shit_ about that?" He thrust it out, shoved it from his belly on a wave of limp air.

"You will die if you do not stop this."

He continued to struggle, unsure what impact his movements were causing, but angry enough that he was even _in _this moment that it didn't matter. He was tired of being the victim of a demon's revenge. He hadn't wanted to torture _her_. He'd simply wanted the pain to stop.

He was done. No more.

"I don't care, Cas! _I don't care_! But I am not going to let Sam—"

"You cannot help him if you are dead."

_Goddamn angel and his goddamn logic._

"Help me." It was his heart that spoke. He didn't even force the words through his lips. "Help me…please."

Castiel was silent and for a moment Dean panicked. Terror ripped through him with the speed of a freight train stealing his wavering breath, sending his blackened vision white, turning his laboring heart inside out.

Alone. Alone. Alone.

He had to move…run…escape…fight fight fight—

"Do not turn away from me, Dean."

"Fuck you."

"You cannot do this alone."

"I'm _not_ losing him. We…we're just starting to be…brother's again."

_Hell is for heroes, Dean._

Alistair's voice was quick to slip into the silence left by Castiel's reluctance. It slid around Dean's thrashing heart like oil, fingers slipping into his soul and digging in.

_You were very good at what you did. One of the best. A virtual prodigy. _

"I've got you, Dean."

"Cas—" He was almost spent. He had nothing left. "Please."

"I've got you."

His breath shook as his body was lifted and he forced his eyes to close, shutting out nothing, turning once more to the darkness.

www

"You're kidding me, right?"

Raya blinked water from her lashes as she looked up at him. "What are you talking about?"

Sam shoved his wet hair back from his forehead with impatient fingers. _It can stop raining anytime_….

"That's a Cooper."

"It's a classic," Raya shot back.

"Not exactly your standard cop car," Sam grumbled, moving around to the passenger side.

"Well, I'm not exactly your standard cop," Raya snarled, practically ripping the small door off its hinges. "And since you left that black monster of yours back there propping up your brother, you can either get in, or walk."

Swallowing a sigh, Sam tossed the now very wet gym bag Castiel had brought back with him into the small space behind the passenger seat and after a moment of studying the vehicle's interior doubtfully, attempted to fold his long body into the seat.

Knees bent to a point up above the dash, he struggled to grab the door handle and pull it closed. His elbow hit the curve of his hips and he felt the tip of the demon-killing knife poke into the denim of his thigh. The butt of his gun dug into the base of his spine. He could feel his hair brushing the roof.

"I feel like I'm in a freakin'…_clown_ car," he bitched.

"Quit whining," Raya muttered. "Where are we going?"

Sam took a breath. "Just head to those cross streets—what was it, Nickel and Strand?—and…stop in the nearest alley."

"Alley? Why?" Raya dug her elbow into his leg to shove it aside and grab the gear shift.

"Just…there's something I have to do before we meet up with…her."

"I know who she is," Raya commented.

Sam frowned, looking over at her. "The demon?"

"No, the girl. Took me a bit, but I finally placed her."

For a moment the only sound in the small car was that of the rain doing its best to swamp them. Sam had to work to swallow, his mouth going dry as he thought of the girl that the demon possessed. Her resemblance to Jessica.

"Who is she?"

"A junkie I busted about three years ago," Raya said. "Before I was promoted to detective. Got her in a program, got her cleaned up, but then…," Raya lifted a shoulder in a shrug as she passed a pick-up truck, squinting as the backsplash completely covered the windshield, "she fell off the grid. I'd heard she hooked back up with her pusher, was turning tricks. I, uh…I kinda thought she was dead."

"She is, now." Sam felt the rock behind his heart begin to fill him up once more.

"But," Raya's voice shook slightly, "it didn't kill me. Being…y'know…possessed."

"You didn't take two bullets to the gut, either," Sam pointed out. "The minute that demon is out of her…she's dead."

"Oh, God," Raya breathed. "I—"

"Don't." Sam shook his head. "Just…don't go there. Believe me. You don't want to handle that."

Raya was quiet for a moment and Sam put one hand against the roof and gripped the dash awkwardly with the other as she took a corner on two wheels.

"Is Dean going to die?"

The flat delivery of the words cut through Sam like the blade of a heated knife. He felt his breath catch on the edges of his teeth.

"No."

"He didn't look—"

"_No_."

"You some kind of power over life and death or something?"

Sam slid a look at her out of the corner of his eyes. "Or something."

He didn't want to think too long about the materials waiting in the gym bag, the ingredients they had planned to use to summon the female demon. He didn't want to think about summoning another one—any other one—simply to take out. Use it as a power supply.

"We almost there?"

Raya nodded stiffly. "There's a club on the corner. Called Lucky's. There's an alley around by the back entrance."

"She'll be in the club," Sam said with sudden certainty.

"You think?"

"Some place public," Sam continued, thinking. "Where we could do the exchange and she could get out."

"Be kinda hard to kill us in public."

"Hard for us to kill her, too."

"You can do that?"

Sam lifted his chin. "Yes."

Raya entered the end of the back alley with another turn around a tight corner, throwing Sam off balance and into her with a grunt.

"Get…off!" Raya thrust her elbow in his side.

Tangled in his own arms and legs, Sam slapped a hand on the windshield, trying to extricate himself from the seatbelt. He jerked, startled when Raya slammed on the brakes with a gasp and a solid _thunk_ rocked the car. Sam shot his glance through the window, seeing a blond man practically sprawled on the hood of the tiny car from where Raya had hit him, the blue neon of Lucky's sign reflecting on the water-covered surface.

The man looked up, meeting Sam's eyes, and the blue orbs slid to onyx as a wet grin spread across the man's face.

"Shit!"

Sam grabbed for the gym bag and the door handle at the same time. The man turned and started to run down the alley. Sam couldn't get his fingers around the handle quick enough.

"Stop him! Run him down!"

"What?"

"Stop him!"

Raya flattened the accelerator, snapping Sam's head back with the burst of power. She aimed for the man, clipping him as he tried to exit the short alley. Shoving the small door open with his shoulder, Sam slapped his hand on the roof of the car, hauling his torso from the interior of the car, then worked to untangle his legs.

Raya was out of her side, rushing around to the man, her gun drawn.

"Raya…wait!"

One leg free, Sam's hand slipped on the wet metal of the roof and he crashed backwards onto the ground, rain water splashing up around him, the gym bag landing just out of his reach.

"You want this guy or not?" Raya shouted over the sound of the rain.

"Look out!" Sam cried from the ground, scrambling to his knees just as the man twisted, thrusting his hand out and sending what looked like a discarded hubcap flying toward the detective.

Raya dropped, covering her wet head with her arms, and the flying metal clanged against a nearby dumpster. Before Sam could gain his feet, the man charged past Raya and into the club through the back door, a blast of music filling the alley for a brief moment.

"What the hell was that?" Raya shouted.

Expletives that would have made Dean grin with pride streamed from Sam's mouth as he stood, gripping the gym bag in his left hand and pulling his weapon free with his right.

"A demon," he all-but growled.

"_Another_ one?"

"They seem to be…flocking."

"What the hell was he doing here?"

"I had to guess? I think he's after Dean. Same as the one at the motel."

"The junkie? That we're meeting?"

Sam shook his head. "No, the maintenance man you saw her beating up."

"This is like following the plot of a Chris Nolan movie." Raya shoved her wet hair from her face in a gesture of frustration.

Sam slid his gun back into his waistband with a shrug. Raya holstered her weapon and peered up at him.

"What's in the bag?"

Sam swallowed. "You don't want to know."

"I almost got decapitated by a Ford reject. Believe me. I want to know."

Sam looked up at the door to the club. "It's…ingredients. For summoning a demon."

"Summoning one," she replied, her tone flat.

"Listen, it's complicated, but I…I need one to…help me get the other. You don't have to understand."

She arched an eyebrow. "Good. 'Cause I don't."

"But…if we can catch that one, I won't need to use the bag."

"Well," Raya looked over her shoulder. "He went in the club."

"Think you can get us in?" Sam jutted his chin toward the door.

Raya lifted the tail of her wet shirt, revealing her badge. "This oughtta do. 'Course we look like drowned rats."

Sam tipped an eyebrow. "Bad-ass drowned rats," he amended, nodding toward her holstered weapon.

"If you say so, Big Guy."

He followed her toward the entrance, schooling his features as she hauled the door opened and stepped through. It was dark, the music loud enough to beat against his body like physical blows. Flashes of strobe lights ticked around the corner from the small hall and Sam smelled a mixture of sweat, perfume, cigarette smoke, and beer. Three steps in they were stopped by a very large, very tattooed man.

"KCPD," Raya said, lifting her badge. "You see a wet, blond guy run through here about five minutes ago?"

The man nodded, his small, dark eyes shifting to Sam, then back to Raya.

"Dude blasted through here without paying. Sent my man after him."

"Think you could point out which direction they went?" Sam asked.

Tattoo lifted a shoulder. "Only one way to go," he said, pointing toward the smoky lights. "Dance floor."

The rhythmic jam of repeated electric guitar chords undercut by David Grohl's throaty declaration led them forward.

"_All my life I've been searching for something, something never comes, never leads to nothing, nothing satisfies, but I'm getting close, closer to the prize at the end of the rope…."_

At first the lights dazzled Sam's eyes, the music blocking out any other sound, including Raya's voice as she shouted something up at him. He blinked, momentarily disoriented. And then he saw her. The demon who wore Jessica's face.

She stood in the center of the crowd of people, a jacket buttoned over the wounds he knew Raya had inflicted, her still-wet hair curling around her face and down her back, her arms in the air while her hips gyrated to the heady rhythm.

Ignoring Raya, Sam waded into the sea of people, shifting and moving, adjusting until he was directly in front of her. She didn't open her eyes; she continued to move to the music as he stood there, staring, remembering.

"_All night long I dream of the day, when it comes around and it's taken away, leaves me with the feeling that I feel the most, feel it come to life when I see your ghost…."_

He knew of course that it wasn't her. It wasn't Jessica. There were enough differences. Hardness where she'd been soft. Lines where she'd been smooth. But she was close. Close as Sam had seen in the yawn of years since he'd watched his love burn to death.

Sam reached up, gently wrapping his hand around her wrist. The demon opened its black eyes and Sam breathed in sharply, tightening his grip.

"He's going to die, you know," the demon said, and amazingly, Sam heard it. Clearly as if lips had been pressed to his ear. "You can't win."

"_Done I'm done and I'm on to the next, done, done on to the next one…."_

"Want to bet on that?" Sam asked, slipping the knife out from its sheath and sliding the blade up the center of her jacket, cutting the buttons free, cloaked by the darkness and the light and the crowd.

"You wouldn't." One shake of her head in time with the last beat of the song had Sam's eyes catching on the blond man they'd chased inside now standing behind her. "You don't have the antidote."

"You sure about that?" Sam asked, resting his eyes on the man, taking a calculated guess as another song kicked through the oblivious crowd.

Doubt shadowed the demon's face for a moment, and she shot a look at the blond man. Seemingly satisfied with what she saw, she twisted her arm in Sam's grip, forcing him to break her wrist or release it. He loosened his fingers, letting her go.

"Outside," she said, turning and motioning for the other demon to lead the way through the crowd.

Sam holstered the knife and followed, watching as two more men peeled off from the crowd and exited with the woman and the blond man. Glancing around for Raya, he found the smaller brunette waiting near the tattooed bouncer, nodding her thanks as she followed Sam into the rain.

"What's going on?" she asked, practically shouting at him over the unforgiving noise of the rain.

Sam took a breath. "You need to leave," he said as he watched the four demons walk to the corner of the building and turn down the alley. "This…could get ugly."

"You think I'm leaving you with four of those…things? Not hardly."

"I can take care of myself."

Raya tipped her head to the side. "Y'know, your brother said that same thing."

"Well, when he's not caught off-guard, Dean's the best there is."

"No," Raya shook her head. "I mean he said that about you." As Sam gaped at her, surprised, she pulled her gun once more. "I'll cover you."

Taking a moment to weigh his options, Sam grabbed the sawed-off shotgun from the gym bag and handed it to her. "Use this. It'll hurt 'em a lot more."

"No shit," she muttered, tucking the butt of the shotgun under her arm and heading to the opposite side of the alley.

Sam took a breath. "Any of you angels out there?" he whispered into the rainy night. "Now might be a good time to figure out whose side you're on."

Rounding the corner he pulled up short as he was faced with four demons standing in a line, their backs to the parked Cooper. The woman stood more or less in front of the three men, a smug grin on her face.

"New recruits?" Sam asked, eyes searching for any possible escape routes and finding none.

"Even a demon has friends," she replied.

"Right," Sam rolled his eyes.

"Let's just say they," she glanced first one way, then the other, "have a vested interest in what happens to Michael's vessel."

"Yeah?" Sam tilted his head. "What about Lucifer's vessel?"

The men shifted, exchanging glances.

"What's in the bag?" The woman asked, ignoring both the question and her companions' discomfort.

"Something for you."

"It's about time." She lifted her chin in triumph. "I knew the little bastard had it. That old man wouldn't have lied. Not after what I did to him."

"It won't work, you know," Sam tried, watching the hands of the other demons, his body tense and ready. "It wouldn't even work for me."

"In a couple hours I'll have both angels and demons gunning for my ass. The Eye of God is the only thing that will protect me." She narrowed her eyes at him. "And it _will_ protect me because I _believe_. That's all I need."

Sam shook his head. "You have to be free of doubt or duplicity." Castiel's words sounded strange in his mouth.

She arched an eyebrow, water dripping from her chin. "Whatever. Some angel fed you a line of bull and you swallowed it whole, kiddo."

"Tell me," Sam said, tightly. "Which agenda came first—revenge on my brother, or getting this…protection?"

Lips twisting as if to hide a secret she asked, "What do you think?"

"I think you could give a rat's ass about the Eye. I think you just wanted to torture Dean."

Her smirk made him sick. "I guess you'll never know. Now, give the damn thing here and this will all be over."

Sam skimmed his eyes over the group once more, pulling the rain from his lips into his mouth. "Show me the antidote first."

The woman tilted her head, then sighed. "Fine."

She motioned with two fingers and the blond demon Sam had Raya run down with her tiny car stepped forward. _I knew it,_ Sam groaned inwardly. He'd suspected that demon had the antidote when they were inside the club. Dean called it his Spidey Sense; he needed to learn to trust it. One of these days.

The demon pulled a large syringe similar to the one Sam had seen rocking slowly on Raya's floor from the breast pocket of his coat. It took everything in Sam not to rush forward, grab the syringe, and head for the car.

Only the knowledge that he'd never get back into that car before they tore him apart kept his feet planted.

"I showed you mine," she said coyly, stepping forward until there was only an arm's length between them, the rain curtaining the space, "now you show me yours."

His eyes on the syringe, Sam reached into the gym bag and pulled out a small box. In it was a small container of Oil of Abramelin, but it was all he had.

"We do this at the same time," he declared, dropping the bag and holding out his hand.

The demon holding the syringe reached out. It was almost within Sam's reach. And then the woman grabbed the box. And opened it.

"You _son of a bitch_!" she screeched, grabbing Sam by the throat and crossing the alley to slam him against the wall with inhuman speed and impressive force. "You _dare_ screw me over?"

He couldn't breathe. Her grip was impenetrable. His eyes were on the syringe still in the blond demon's hand, but his vision was blurring.

"Do you have _any_ idea what your brother did to me?"

"I…don't…care," Sam rasped.

"You don't care, huh?" she fired back. "It could have been you, Chosen One. It still could be."

"Not…a…demon."

"Not yet," she growled.

As Sam watched in horror, she bit her own wrist, drawing blood, then thrust it up to his mouth. He was drowning on rain, the demon's grip crushing his throat, sending his heart into a terrified crash against his rib cage, and yet…he could still smell the blood.

"Drink enough of this…you'll have Lucifer at _your_ beck and call, Sammy."

He couldn't even turn away; she held him fast. The blood dripped to his lips, running to the corners of his mouth. It was what he'd wanted. It was what he'd said he'd do. Whatever it took, he'd defeat her, get the antidote, save his brother.

And without warning, a memory slammed into him. A memory from years ago. A memory of a cabin in Missouri, his father, helpless on the floor, Azaezel trapped inside of him, the weight of the Colt heavy in Sam's hand. The moment he could have ended it all. Saved them. Stopped all of this.

By killing his father.

_Sam, don't you do it. Don't you do it…Sam…no._

He _had_ to. It was the only way. This time…it was the _only way_.

"You wonder, don't you, Sam? How your brother did what he did? How he took me apart…tore so many souls to pieces…how he lives with himself now?"

"Go…to…Hell…." He dug his fingers into the back of her hand, but her grip was iron.

"Been there. Done that."

Her blood ran down his chin, mixing with the rain, splashing onto his shirt.

_You can't do that again. Not for me. Not for this. Don't let this send you back there._

He could taste it, salty on his tongue. All he had to do was—

A shotgun blast sent her spiraling away from him and Sam fell to his knees, gasping and coughing, drawing in great, wet breaths. Another blast and he saw the demon that was holding the syringe fall backwards, the antidote tumbling free and rolling away.

Wiping his wet arm across his blood-smeared mouth, he raised his head, peering at Raya through wet bangs.

"Took you long enough."

"You got any more rounds?" She demanded, her eyes on the two demons advancing on them. "Or am I going to have to go all Dirty Harry on their asses?"

"Bag," Sam choked out.

"Get the syringe," Raya said, bending to fumble with the contents of the gym bag. "I'll take care of Thing One and Thing Two."

Sam nodded weakly, stumbling forward, hurrying toward where he saw the antidote. Before he could grab it, though, an invisible force propelled him forward, slamming him against the opposite wall, and holding him there.

His ears rang with the sound of the sawed-off, and dimly he saw Thing Two toss Raya to the side as if she were a doll, her slim form crumbling as it contacted the wall of the club with brutal force.

"You should've just done what I asked, Sam," the female demon shouted, moving toward Sam's trapped body, her side bloody. "You both might've survived this. But…as it stands…my friends here are going to take you to the boss. And your brother is going to suffocate to death in the dark."

"You won't win," Sam declared, blinking rain from his blurring vision.

"Ummm…." she frowned mockingly, looking around at Raya's prone form, and the two, still-standing demons. "I kinda already have."

"You never touched him," Sam snarled, feeling his lip curl. In the distance, lightning flashed, thunder rumbling in a low growl quickly after it. "You _can't_ touch him."

With wicked speed, the demon rushed up to Sam, her face close, her lips practically touching his. "I pierced his flesh as he pierced mine. I will suck the marrow from his bones when he's taken his last breath."

"You. Wish."

His taunting worked. With unabashed fury, the demon ripped him from the wall, throwing him across the wet alley in a tangle of limbs. He gasped with the pain of impact, but he was free. He slipped the knife from its holster, rolling over to see the other two demons advance on him.

"NO!" the female screamed. "No. He's _mine_."

"We have orders." The demons exchanged a glance. "You made promises."

The demon looked over at the other two with scorn. "You really are morons. We're demons. Since when have promises meant anything?"

She grabbed Sam by the neck and lifted him, seeing the knife at the last minute and dodging away.

"Clever little hunter," she sing-songed. "Let's just get rid of that pig-sticker, shall we?"

Sam grunted as the knife was torn from his hand, skittering across the wet pavement as lightning and thunder overlapped in their fury. He reached for the weapon tucked in his waist band—bruising his spine—but she crashed a fist against his wrist and Sam heard it skittering away on the pavement.

She renewed her grip, wrapping both hands around his throat. He tried to pry her hands away from his throat, but she slammed him down against the wet pavement, sending his senses spinning, his breath trapped and useless in his chest.

Dimly, he was aware of the third demon rising, standing behind his attacker, the three of them staring down at him like dead angels, faces impassive, eyes black. Sam reached desperately over his head, clawing for purchase, searching for his lost weapon, vision wavering, consciousness beginning to flee. The beating of his heart drowned out the slam of thunder and the lightning turned his fading vision gray as he thrashed, writhing in her grip, looking anywhere but at her…at them…at their onyx eyes.

And then he saw the impossible.

As lightning flashed once more, a figure appeared in the alley. A figure Sam would know anywhere: Dean. Sam's eyes fluttered as he saw his brother, standing, somehow, in the rain-soaked alley, arms crossed over his body, head bowed, and, inconceivably, massive wings spreading in a imposing display of might. In the brilliance of the light, the darkened shadow of wings extended majestically outward from his back, declaring to all who saw that he _was _power.

Sam's brain skipped. His tortured lungs cried out and the sound slipped through his lips and hit the air, following the shimmer of energy he'd felt between himself and Dean since his brother had opened his eyes in that warehouse. The cry hit Dean and his brother sank to the ground, limp, and unresponsive. Sam blinked again and saw Castiel, standing where Dean had been, righteous wrath darkening his chiseled features.

"Let. Him. Go." Castiel's voice was a roar of sound and the female demon stumbled back and away, Sam suddenly free.

For a moment Sam couldn't breathe, he couldn't move, and then he was choking, gasping, retching on water, thirsty for air. He curled to his side, coughing, eyes still on Dean's crumpled form, as Castiel advanced on the four demons. It took him a moment to realize that what he'd seen had been _Castiel's_ wings.

Dean wasn't moving; Sam couldn't tell if his brother was even breathing. But he was here. And the antidote was here. Sam just had to get them together.

He crawled through the rain toward where he'd last seen the syringe, forced back with a grunt of pain when a boot hit his side and flipped him over to his back. Thing One—or was it Thing Two?—peered down at him.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Sam snapped.

It wasn't a slow build of frustrated anger. It was sudden and vicious and he wanted to rip the demon's head from its shoulders—innocent host or not. He arched his back and used his hands and feet to bounce himself to a crouch, rushing the surprised demon and slamming into his mid-section, crashing them both against the wall.

Dean had always been better at the close contact fighting, but Sam was willing to bet that Dean had never felt this level of fury. He'd never held a lit stick of dynamite just beneath the thin surface of control. With a growl, Sam tore into the demon, his fists crashing against bone, his fingers tearing at flesh. He didn't even notice when the demon's blood splashed up and hit his face. He didn't truly feel the pain of his split knuckles.

The only thing that stopped him was catching sight of Castiel in a flash of lightning, overwhelmed by three demons, fighting for his life, his angelic powers dampened by his affection for the Winchesters. Sam tried to throw the demon he was beating to a pulp aside, but the creature would have none of it. He grabbed Sam's leg and tripped him, sending him crashing to the ground, just beyond the reach of the demon-killing knife.

Sam twisted, kicking out at the demon that held his leg, trying to free himself and pull Castiel out of that mess. Trying to get to Dean. Trying to _fix this_.

But they were out of time.

Sam felt it in his heart, and it was echoed in the triumphant grin he saw on the face of the female demon as she watched Castiel struggle against her counterparts. She knew, Sam realized. She knew that even if she didn't get the protection she'd been after…she had gotten her revenge.

He craned his neck, seeing his brother's limp body lying in the rain. How had they allowed things to get so out of control? This was their life, their job, what they'd been bred for, apparently. And they were losing. _He_ was losing.

_Please!_ Sam thought in desperation. _Someone…hear me. Please! _

A fist crashed against his jaw and sent him tumbling away, landing hard on his back, his vision dazzled by lightning. The alley, the sky, the whole world lit up with one powerful blast of energy as if nature had decided to listen to Sam's plea. Curling to his side, Sam shielded his eyes, peering dazedly at the melee of Castiel fighting the demons, his face cut and bloody, his hair slicked to his scalp, his hands up.

No one moved when the brilliance abated. The demons facing Castiel simply stared at the angel in confusion. The demon looming over Sam stood with his head tilted in curiosity. And the female demon wearing the body of a broken junkie began to back slowly away from the group, wary fear suddenly evident on her face.

Sam struggled to his elbow, watching in awe as Castiel dropped his defensive stance, taking a step back, his wounds a strange, human contrast to his normally flawless skin. Shaking his head, Sam realized they were _listening_. They were all listening as if to a radio signal tuned only to the supernatural.

"The bounty on your head is reinstated." Castiel's deep, modulated voice carried over the sound of the rain as it beat against the asphalt.

The female demon continued to slide backwards, her escape taking her toward the wall of the building framing the alley.

"No…no, I have more time. I have _more time_!" she screamed, more in anger than terror.

"According to whom?" Castiel asked mildly.

As if ordered by a silent command, the three demons turned as one, facing their former partner in crime, their faces eerily blank in the disorienting flashes of the storm. Castiel's shoulders seemed to square up, his chin lifting.

_She's screwed,_ Sam realized with an odd tug of pity. The angels wanted her for killing a man of God. The demons wanted her for reneging on her deal. And she'd allowed her need for revenge to overshadow her need for protection.

"We're…we're the same, though," she said, nervously. Her eyes darted between the two demons facing her, ignoring Castiel, seeking an ally.

"Exactly," growled the blond demon. "A demon."

Sam pushed to his knees, grabbing his knife and, taking advantage of the distraction, thrust the blade into the demon standing nearest him, setting the human soul free along with the crackle and spark of the dying demon.

"Cas!" He called.

Castiel simply held out his hand, and Sam tossed the knife, only slightly amazed when the angel caught it effortlessly without even a glance. Turning away from the battle at the end of the alley, Sam crawled through the puddles of gathering rain water to his brother, who was lying on his side, his face tilted into the water, his skin a pale blue even in the peaked light of the storm.

"Oh, Jesus…Dean, no."

Sam pulled his brother up, the heaviness of Dean's body weighing down his heart and making it hard to grip the wet shirt and uncooperative muscles. Dragging them back until they were against the brick wall of the club, somewhat protected from the unrelenting rain, he slipped a leg under Dean's back, rolling his brother against him until he could see his eyes. They were barely open, focusing on nothing, empty.

Almost imperceptible over the storm, Sam heard the slow, laborious rattle of breath as Dean continued to fight the effects of the virus, continued to command his lungs to fill. Sam felt his mouth twist down, his eyes burning. He wiped the rain from his brother's face, his wet hair dripping to run down Dean's face like tears.

Lifting his eyes, Sam scanned the alley, searching for the syringe. All he saw were shadows, rain, and the fight of an angel against demons.

"W-worth…it…."

"What?" Sam sniffed, looking down at Dean, curling him close so that his brother's cold lips were near his ear. "What? Dean, what?"

At first there was nothing, the pause terrifying. And then he heard Dean's voice rasp once more.

"Worth…it."

"Aw, no," Sam shook his head. "Please…no, Dean, _please_."

He looked up, saw the crackling fire as Castiel extinguished the blond man's demon and then saw Raya pushing unsteadily to her feet.

"Raya!" Sam called, desperation and panic turning his voice high and sharp. "Help us!"

He watched as she stumbled forward, using the wall of the club for balance, casting confused, fearful glances back at Castiel as he and Thing One advanced on the female demon.

In moments Raya fell to her knees next to them, looking at her one-time lover with horror and heartache.

"Find the syringe," Sam ordered. "I can't see it, but I know it's here."

She simply nodded, splashing away. Sam pulled Dean close, remembering as he did so that his brother couldn't feel him, couldn't hear him, couldn't see him. Dean was trapped in the dark. Sam pressed his wet hand to Dean's cold cheek, trying to shield him from as much of the rain as he could.

The virus hadn't stopped Dean from protecting Sam from the angel's voice or the falling glass. It hadn't stopped him from fighting off a vicious attack from a rogue demon bent on bounty. It hadn't stopped him from somehow convincing Castiel to bring him here.

"I'm not going to let you die," Sam vowed, his voice barely there. "I'm not going to let them win."

www

The darkness faded slowly to gray; white, smeared images tracking up through his vision like the beginning of an old movie reel.

He was warm.

He'd forgotten what a pleasant sensation that was. A sigh of muscles as they relaxed under the spray of a shower. A slip of contentment as hands wrapped around a mug of coffee on a cool day.

It took him a moment to realize he could see. But what he was seeing didn't really track with what he thought he _should be_ seeing.

_Where the hell…?_

"Hello?" he called hesitantly.

"Dean."

He turned around, his boots causing dust mites to bounce up from hay scattered beneath his feet and dance in a beam of sunlight that cut a path in front of him. On the other side of that sunbeam, slouched on a bale of hay and leaning against a large pole, was the angel who'd knocked Castiel on his ass and tried to spear Sam with warehouse glass.

"Are we…in a barn?" Dean asked, spreading his hands out from his sides as he moved slowly forward.

He paused, head tilted slightly in curiosity, when the angel put a piece of straw in his mouth.

"I allowed my vessel to select the setting," the angel said. "I've never done that before. It's…interesting." He looked around, taking in the rural setting.

"You picked a Kansas farmer, man," Dean lifted a shoulder. "Don't expect The Ritz."

"Yes, well, the lack of rain is refreshing," the angel commented.

Dean quirked his lips in a tolerant grin. "So, we just gonna shoot the shit, or is there a reason you brought me here?" At the angel's guileless expression, Dean went cold inside. "Am I…already dead?"

The angel shook his head, pushing himself to his feet. "If you were dead, you would be in Heaven. And it would be your Heaven."

Dean glanced around once more at the stalls, the bales of hay, the farm implements affixed to the wall. "Okay, so…no."

"You are not dead," the angel confirmed, "but you are not really alive either."

Dean frowned. "Do all you guys talk in riddles? You should have a guidebook."

"We do." The angel lifted an eyebrow. "You call it the Bible."

"A guidebook that everyone understands," Dean shot back, dropping his chin and lifting his eyebrows.

The angel pressed his lips closed as if making a conscious decision not to be baited.

"You have a choice to make, Dean." He nodded over Dean's shoulder.

Confused, Dean frowned, turning slowly to face the entrance of the barn. To his surprise he didn't see an open meadow or field of corn as he'd expected. He saw a dark, rain-soaked alley. At one end, Castiel shoved a knife into the belly of a demon. At the other, Sam sat against a building, surrounded by water, holding Dean's body.

Dean was dizzy for a moment, looking at his own body. He looked terrible. His skin was almost blue, his mouth partly opened, his eyes sunken and lidded. He lay limp, completely unresponsive to Sam's grasp and pleas. He looked…dead.

"You sure I'm not dead?" Dean asked, his voice razor thin.

"There is one way to come out of this and save more than just yourself," the angel said, his voice soft at Dean's ear. "Say _yes_ to Michael."

Dean half turned to face him. "What's your name again? Adosomething?"

The angel looked surprised. "Castiel spoke my name?"

Dean arched an eyebrow. "Oh, he spoke a few things about you."

"Adonael."

"Well…_Adonael_…I'll tell you the same thing I told your evil twin. You can stick your _yes_ where the sun don't shine."

The angel pursed his lips. "It is unwise to continue to fight your destiny. The longer you resist, the more people will die."

"Pretty sure a helluva lot of people'll die if I say yes. Including my brother."

"There are casualties in war," Adonael shrugged.

Dean turned away, looking back at his body in Sam's grip. "It's not worth it."

His words echoed oddly in his ears; he saw his own lips move and frowned in confusion.

"Peace on Earth for eternity. No more war. No more pain. No more loss."

Dean faced the angel. "The death of _millions_ of innocent people. The complete destruction of humanity's way of life. My _brother_. I will _not_ sacrifice all of that to fight your Holy War."

"You would die to save him? Again? Will that stop anything? You saw the future, Dean. You saw that he _will_ say yes—he will allow Lucifer his vessel. You will lose him anyway. Is resistance really worth that?"

"Let me tell you something, you arrogant prick," Dean growled, stepping toward the innocuous-looking farmer with an angel's eyes. "The future is nothing. What I saw? Just somebody's story. That is my brother out there." He thrust a finger toward the opening behind him. "And he is worth _everything_. All of it. _He_ is the only thing that's _worth it_."

This time when his words echoed, he didn't flinch. He simply stared with stone-solid eyes back at the angel.

"You said _yes_ once before," Adonael calmly reminded him.

Dean flicked an eyebrow. "And look how great _that_ worked out."

They stared at each other for another moment, both unwilling to yield. Dean watched as something unreadable shifted in the angel's eyes and he felt himself growing cold.

"So be it," Adonael said softly. And with that, he was gone.

He was gone, the barn was gone, warmth was gone, sensation was gone. Dean turned and saw Raya hurrying back toward Sam, something captured in her hand. He blinked as the vision began to fade, curling in from the corners until the only thing he could make out was his body in his brother's arms. His breath was like lead in his lungs, his body a block of unresponsive ice. The silence that now surrounded him pressed close, shutting out even his fading vision.

"C'mon, Sammy."

www

"S-Samm-y…."

The air rasped out through Dean's blue lips and Sam knew it was his brother's last.

"RAYA!"

"I found it, I got it." She slid up close to them, water splashing over Dean's form and handed Sam the syringe with a trembling hand. "Where do you put it in?"

"Neck," Sam said, remembering the puncture wound. "Move his shirt."

Raya pulled down the collar of Dean's shirt and Sam removed the plastic tip from the needle with his teeth. He took a quick breath and then plunged the needle into his brother's neck. He pushed the liquid into Dean's body as quickly as he could, chest tightening with the fear of _what if what if what if…_.

What if the demon had been lying? What if he were actually killing his brother? What if it didn't work? What if _what if what if_….

A scream tore through the alley as the liquid moved into Dean and Sam shot his eyes up, seeing Castiel standing off to the side as the blonde junkie arched her neck, the black smoke of the demons soul burbled up through her mouth and ran in a dark river down to be absorbed into the Earth and back down to Hell as the remaining demon stood, hand out, face impassive.

Castiel caught the hosts dead body before she hit the ground, looking at the demon for one brief moment before it, too, fled the scene, its bounty retrieved.

The syringe was empty. Sam pulled the needle out and tossed it aside, pressing his palm over the now-bleeding puncture mark.

"Dean?"

His brother was so still, his body completely pliant.

Sam shook him. "Dean?"

And without warning, Dean's back arched, his neck curling backwards, his head pressing into Sam's leg as his mouth opened in a silent scream.

www

The darkness was sadly familiar.

For one moment, Dean was willing to accept death simply to be rid of the darkness.

And then the fire hit him.

Liquid fire burned through his body with unmitigated vengeance, igniting his bones, turning his lungs to ash, searing the backs of his eyes. He couldn't even scream; the heat stole his breath, trapped his voice, rendering him helpless to it. He tried to pull away, too done in with pain to register that he could feel his body moving.

On the heels of the fire, came the noise. Screams and screeches, discordant guitar chords and crash of metal. He rolled away from it, slamming his hands over his ears, but unable to block it out.

And then the world exploded in light. Brilliant, horrific, nuclear in its intensity. His eyes ached with it, watering in retaliation of the heat. He could smell his body burning, smell the blood and sweat, smell the dirt and the rain. The tang of copper coated his tongue, gagging him with the taste of blood.

He was going to disintegrate, collapse inside himself as the pain ate through him, senses returning to him with fury, unable to maintain it, unable to control it, unable to bear it.

And then arms wrapped around him.

He felt them. Their grip somehow, impossibly, dampened the pain. Somehow, impossibly, cooled him. Somehow, impossibly, kept him safe.

www

The scream seemed to crawl from Dean's gut, breathy and heartbreaking at first, building in ferocity until Sam's heart shrank inside of him as the sound tore through the night. He couldn't hold Dean still—couldn't hold him at all.

Dean's scream seemed to shake the air, calling Castiel's attention, cowering Raya, and turning Sam's blood to ice. He reached for Dean, trying to do something—anything—to stop the horrible, painful sound from bleeding through his brother.

_He called out for help. But we were prevented from hearing. Until his heart broke. And the sound shook the Heavens._

Sam knew this had been the sound Castiel had heard. Dean rolled to his side, curling his legs up, covering his ears, his eyes squeezed tight. Sam scrambled over to face him, seeing the blood from the glass wound as his brother's shirt rucked up as a result of his thrashing. The rain continued to wipe away the red, but it still flowed.

"Dean, hey," Sam tried, cupping his brother's face as the scream faded to a ragged cry. "Hey, it's okay, you're okay."

His eyes were bleeding. Sam drew his head back in shock. Blood ran in thin streams from the corners of Dean's eyes.

Sam felt something crack inside of him at the sight. It was a pain so intense he put his hand against his chest as if to hold his heart in place. Moving his thumb carefully, he wiped the blood and rain from Dean's face, feeling his brother tremble, hearing the sharp retort of the breaths Dean dragged into his body.

"Dean?" He could barely whisper it, the pain in his chest so intense.

Dean simply continued to breathe, his body tight. Sam reached out with both hands, oblivious of Raya's closeness, Castiel's approach, the muck in the alley, the abating storm. He gripped Dean's shoulders and lifted him, putting his brother's back to his front, and wrapped his arms around Dean, pulling them both back against the building in an attempt at shelter.

"I know you can hear me, man," Sam said, his voice a low rumble of sound as Dean shook against him. "You just keep breathing, okay? That's all you need to do."

Dean arched slightly away from him, but Sam held him tight.

"You're right, Dean. It's worth it. This fight we're in, it's worth it. _We're_ worth it."

Dean's rapid breathing began to slow.

"I didn't do it, Dean."

The trembling began to abate.

"I didn't have to."

"Sam."

"Hey, there you are."

"Are you h-hugging m-me?"

"Absolutely not. That would be weird."

"D-Don't let go."

The sharp pain in Sam's chest dissolved, leaving him with tears burning his eyes and slipping unnoticed down cheeks cold from rain water. The thunder was all-but gone and the lightning little more than forgotten camera-flashes.

But still the rain fell.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"I c-can feel."

"I figured that out. Can you see?"

He watched as Dean blinked his eyes open, lashes gathered in spikes by the rain, the bruised left one still blood-red, but otherwise normal.

"Yeah."

"It worked, then," Raya said.

Sam had almost forgotten about her. She sat in a puddle, looking all of twelve, staring with large, dark eyes at Dean. A bruise was blossoming on her cheekbone and her lip was bleeding, but she seemed otherwise intact.

"Raya," Dean rasped.

"Dean," she replied. "Helluva first date."

Sam felt Dean smile. He'd never realized how his brother's body seemed to relax into the gesture, but his shoulders sagged back against Sam's chest and his spine seemed to straighten.

"You were amazing," Sam told her. "If you hadn't…." He didn't want to think of the ramifications of what could have happened if he hadn't had help.

Raya glanced away, rubbing at her eyes with the palm of her hand. "Yeah, well," she shrugged. "Nice to do something right for a change."

"Sam."

Sam turned slightly, keeping Dean against him. Castiel stood a few feet away, holding the demon-killing knife in one hand, blood dripping from the tip, and the wet gym bag, heavy with their discarded weapons, in the other.

"It is finished."

"Where is she?" Dean asked, squinting up at Castiel. "The…the demon chick."

Castiel rested his eyes on Dean, not answering for a moment. Sam couldn't read his expression, but that wasn't anything new. With the exception of a couple moments of human-like clarity, Castiel's expressions were an enigma.

"The demon was taken by those she partnered with; her host," Castiel turned and looked toward a small figure laying in the semi-protection of the club's minuscule overhang, "lies there."

Sam turned to look, dropping his arms away from Dean's chest as he let his eyes rest on the sad figure. A girl who it seemed had plenty of her own demons, living her last hours with only a real demon for company. Her profile looked peaceful in death. Peaceful, young, and, strangely, nothing like Jessica's.

He felt his chin tremble, suddenly missing her so much in that moment his bones hurt. He had to release that ache. He _needed_ it to go away. He just wasn't sure how.

"Taken?" Dean rasped, his pain-saturated voice jerking Sam back to the present.

"The bounty was reinstated," Sam said. "Her teamed turned on her."

Dean dropped his head back against Sam's collarbone. "Well, they were demons. No surprise there."

"We should leave this place," Castiel said.

"You look like crap, Cas," Dean commented.

"Your appearance is not much better," Castiel returned.

Raya stood, wavering for a moment. Castiel reached out an arm and balanced her. She nodded her thanks, then looked back down at the brothers.

"We're pretty lucky no one heard this ruckus. I'm guessing the storm and the club sheltered most of it. But…this time," she glanced at Castiel and took a step back, out of his reach, "I gotta call it in."

"What are you going to say?" Sam asked.

"Well," she looked past them at the sad body of the blonde woman. "She lived a hard life. Don't think it would surprise many that she ran sideways of a few dealers."

"You won't say anything about…." Sam trailed off.

"Demons? You two?" Raya half-laughed. "Nah, your secret identity is safe with me. Nothing like seeing the man behind the curtain to shift your perspective."

"What curtain?" Castiel asked.

"Never mind," Dean and Sam replied together.

Raya crouched down in front of Dean. "Will I see you again?"

Sam felt Dean go still against him, the slight tremors still coursing through his body blending with the post-adrenalin-rush shivers from Sam.

"Anything's possible," Dean replied.

She reached out a wet hand and smoothed Dean's hair from his face, trailing a gentle finger down Dean's check. Her eyes softened, the lines smoothing out and disappearing as her eyes tracked the path of her finger and landed on Dean's mouth.

For a moment, Sam felt that he should leave, give them privacy, but then he realized that the only thing holding Dean up at the moment was Sam's body.

"It was me, Dean," Raya said, her voice barely audible over the rain.

Dean shifted his head against Sam's chest as he looked over at her.

"I heard what she—it…whatever—said to you. Last night? You were with _me_."

Dean nodded stiffly.

"You believe me?" Raya tilted her head.

Sam could feel by the tension in his brother's body that Dean wasn't convinced.

"Sure," Dean replied, his voice tight, as if he were forcing sound.

"Believe me," Raya ordered, resting a hand gently on Dean's chest—her every movement showing that she was aware of his wounds, his brush with death. Leaning forward on her knee, Raya bent close, cupping Dean's jaw and kissing him.

Sam looked away, toward Castiel. He may be the only thing keeping his brother upright at the moment, but that didn't mean he had to watch Dean be convinced that he hadn't unknowingly made love to a demon. He noticed, however, that Castiel watched with unabashed curiosity.

Shaking his head, Sam waited until he saw the cop standing once more before glancing back.

"You boys going to be able to get out of here okay? I'd offer you a ride, but—"

"No!" Sam spoke up quickly. "No, it's okay. We got it."

"Are _you_ going to be okay?" Dean asked her.

"I think so," Raya said, looking up, rain trailing down her face. "I'll call this in…take care of them," she tossed a wave toward the three bodies in the alley, "and go home to Steve."

"Who's Steve?" Sam frowned.

"Her plant," Dean replied. "It's better if you don't ask."

Raya smiled down at them, then moved toward her Cooper, reaching in and pulling out a CB handle. Sam sighed, suddenly very weary.

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean asked in a rough voice.

"No."

Dean huffed a weak laugh.

"You hurting?" Sam guessed. He knew Dean would have pulled away from him a long time ago if he'd have been able to.

"Yeah."

"He is bleeding," Castiel informed them, the tapering rain still bouncing from his lips. "He fought me in the warehouse."

"What, are you crazy? You _fought_ an angel?"

"He was rather adamant about getting his way," Castiel said with a benign tilt of his head. He slipped the knife into the gym bag, hefting it in one hand.

"I didn't know," Dean closed his eyes, "how hard I was fighting…I just…I had to get here."

"Well, it's a good thing you did," Sam said, drawing his feet under him while supporting Dean. "'Cause I don't know if—"

"Don't." Dean bit off the word with a grunt of pain as Sam leaned him forward. "No what ifs."

"Okay, man," Sam agreed as he pushed away from the wall and moved around to Dean's side, keeping one arm on his brother's back for support. "Here, let me help you up."

Sam reached out and Dean grasped his hand, thumb over thumb, and for a moment both froze. It was an instinctive, automatic gesture, one they'd done so many times, and yet this time it was different.

Dean gripped his hand, hard, his wounded eyes resting on their overlapping fingers. Sam swallowed as he watching his brother's fingers flex. There was so much captured in a touch: safety, threat, comfort, pain, reassurance, resistance. To not have that—beyond sight, beyond hearing—Sam imagined that to be the true Hell.

"I take it back, Sam."

"What?" Sam whispered.

Dean didn't look up. "When I said…that I wish I couldn't feel anything…."

"It's okay, Dean."

"No, it isn't." Dean raised his eyes and Sam froze.

It was as if everything Dean had seen—whatever nightmare he'd been trapped inside while the virus claimed him—was echoing from his eyes in that moment. It hurt to look at him, but Sam couldn't bear to look away.

"You gotta know this, okay?"

The rain slowed. Their bodies shivered. The bass beat of music from the club was audible with the passing of the storm. The brothers remained still, one slouched in pain, the other on his knees in support, hands clasped tightly, joining them.

"There's so much…pain…in our lives, Sam. It's everywhere. All around us. Inside us."

Sam nodded, silent.

"And sometimes it's…it's _so much_, y'know? It's too much."

Dean closed his tortured eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, Sam saw something had shifted. Blood still scarred the left, but the opened wound he'd seen a moment ago was masked once more by a wall of determination. By the fire and fight that had always been so much a part of Dean.

"But I think we're supposed to feel that, so that we don't forget."

"Forget…what?"

"What the alternative is like. I said _yes_ once before. I climbed—" his voice cracked, but his eyes stayed solid, "down off that fuckin' rack and I tried to make it go away. But it was just waiting for me. I don't want to forget that. Especially now with these…angels on our shoulders."

Sam nodded again, a lump in his throat.

"Sirens," Castiel said suddenly. "Approaching from the west."

Dean didn't move, his eyes focused on Sam's. "Don't forget, Sam."

"I won't forget," Sam promised. "And I won't let _you_ forget."

Dean nodded, his shoulders relaxing, his wounded body once more curling forward.

"Think you can stand?"

"I can sure as hell try."

Gripping his brother's hand, his arm around Dean's back, Sam pulled him upright, Castiel stepping in quickly to support Dean's other side. Before anyone could say another word, the world twisted, Sam's stomach dropped, and the alley disappeared.

www

"Son. Of. A. _Bitch_. That hurts."

Castiel returned them to the warehouse where they'd left the Impala. Travel via angel transport was far from smooth—especially if one didn't have the balance to stick the landing—and the trio staggered in the dust, Sam's strong arm reaching out to catch them against the Impala, jarring Dean's wounded side.

"Sorry," Castiel grunted. "It's harder with two."

"Are you bleeding?" Sam asked the angel, causing Dean to look over at his friend with worry.

"I am," Castiel nodded, releasing Dean and sinking slowly to his knees, the wet bag falling useless at his side.

"Those demons really did a number on you, huh?"

Castiel pressed his fingers to his nose, then his lip. "I'm unaccustomed to…damage."

"Well, the Winchester Clinic is now open," Sam sighed, opening the back door of the Impala and easing Dean down until they were eye level.

"You got one helluva shiner there, brother," Dean informed him. He grabbed Sam's hand as his brother pulled away. "And it looks like you were punching a brick wall. Who were you working over?"

"A brick wall," Sam smirked, "disguised as a demon."

Dean nodded, exhaustion giving one long, lusty tug on his will. He leaned to his left, exposing his right side and winced as he pulled up his wet shirt to inspect the wound.

"I know what I said, but," he hissed as he pulled away what remained of the ruined bandage, "I'm kinda glad I couldn't feel this mother go in."

"Or come out," Sam reminded him. "That wasn't fun."

"Looks like I only tore…six stitches."

"You only had eight to begin with, you freak."

Dean swallowed back the nausea that always flooded him when he was weak from hunger and blood loss. He closed his eyes, leaning his head against the seat.

"I just wanna get dry," he sighed.

"We can't go to a real clinic," Sam lamented, his voice close. Dean didn't open his eyes. "At least not around here."

"Too many demons," Dean agreed softly. "Comin' out of the freakin' woodwork."

"Speaking of," Sam said, moving to the Impala's trunk. "Better make sure no one gets any bright ideas to follow us back here."

Dean heard the shake of salt in the spare gas can.

"And since I seem to be the last man _actually_ standing," Sam whined, "I guess I'll do it."

"I will ensure you are not followed when you leave," Castiel said, slowly pushing himself to his feet.

"Thanks, Cas," Dean replied, his voice soft. For a minute he floated, fading, sinking into the familiar smell and give of the Impala's embrace. He was so tired…so tired.

A searing, white-hot bolt of pain stabbed through him, causing him to jerk upright and open his eyes with a curse.

"Sorry," Sam sighed. He was prodding Dean's side with the tips of his fingers. "I gotta re-do these if we're gonna keep you together long enough to get out of here."

Dean found that—oddly—he didn't mind. He could feel the pain. Feel Sam's fingers. Feel skin on skin. He didn't want to move, didn't want the touch to go away. But Sam's frown was expressive; his brother needed to bookend this fight, move from this point to the next and find a way to declare within himself that this was, for now at least, over.

"So…table?" Dean suggested.

"Table."

Using the edge of the Impala's door frame, Dean hauled his body forward, prevented from falling face-first to the ground by Castiel's strong arm.

"Thanks," Dean said, resting his hand on the Impala's side for a moment. "Man…I sure woulda missed this car."

Sam rolled his eyes. "We get bloody saving his life and he's all misty-eyed over the damn car," he said to Castiel.

Without so much as a shrug, Castiel lifted Dean's arm and slid it over his shoulders, easing him away from the Impala and toward the make-shift med center.

"Perhaps that's because it's your home," Castiel intoned, his gravel-rich voice soft.

Sam and Dean looked at him with twin expressions of surprise.

"Aw, Cas," Dean drawled. "You ol'softie."

"Get him up there," Sam nodded toward the table.

Dean frowned at the table's height. "How did I get up here the first time?"

"I carried you," Castiel revealed.

Sam moved away as Dean stared at his friend. Glass shards left over from Adonael's tantrum littered the table. Dean heard Sam sweep them away, but couldn't pull his eyes from Castiel.

"I heard your voice," he said softly. "I was…everything was gone, but I could hear your voice."

"I allowed it," Castiel nodded. "You would have gone insane in your own prison."

Dean nodded, looking down at the table top, but not shifting forward yet. "Yeah. I would've. And…_how_ did you know that?"

"He's been watching us for a long time, Dean," Sam told him. "A really long time."

Dean looked away from Castiel, meeting Sam's eyes. "Creepy."

"Yeah," Sam agreed.

Castiel frowned. Dean moved away from him and leaned on the table, trying to hoist himself up. His arms shook and the pain that shot through his side drew out a deep-throated groan of pain.

Sam grabbed his shoulders and Castiel pushed his knees forward and then he was slumped on the table top, panting from the exertion.

"Well, that pretty much sucked."

"Here." Sam handed him several pills and a bottle of tepid water.

"What's this?"

"Antibiotics and pain meds. Cas knocked over a hospital."

Dean's eyebrows shot up as he looked over at Castiel.

"It wasn't local." Castiel reasserted his original protest.

"Nice going, Cas!"

Sam tipped his hands up in a shrug as if to say, _I give up_. Dean swallowed the pills, then lay back stiffly.

"You might want to clean up those hands first," he said to Sam in a thin voice.

"I will help," Castiel offered.

Dean watched, directing Castiel softly as he cleaned and taped up Sam's split knuckles. The bruises on Sam's face would simply have to heal with time; they had nothing but pain meds to help those along.

"This is…y'know, gonna hurt," Sam apologized as he leaned toward Dean with the antiseptic.

Dean nodded once, gripping the edge of the table—he could feel the _edge_ of the _table_—to brace himself. Sam began to pour.

"Son of a _fuckin'_ bitch," Dean cried out. "Oh, damn damn damn."

"Sorry." Sam's voice was tight.

"Just finish it, Sam. Good freakin' _Christ_ that _burns_ like a motherfu—"

"Now, I'm really glad you couldn't feel this the first time around." Sam's frown dug deeper into his forehead, drawing the lines of his mouth down. "I think it's infected, Dean."

"We've dealt with that before."

"We're gonna have to stop at a clinic somewhere," Sam told him as he reached for the suture kit. "We don't have enough supplies here if it is."

"Fine. Whatever. Just so long as it's nowhere near Kansas City."

He focused on the broken windows far above them, the water running down the interior of the wall, the curious eyes of the pigeons peering down, the lines of old wood and rusted metal, anything except the pinch and pull of the needle sewing his body back together.

"That bruise on your chest is impressive," Sam commented. "I think I see the shape of the Virgin Mary."

"You see the size of that freakin' needle she had?" Dean shot back, his mouth trembling around an appreciative grin.

"Yeah. I did."

"I still don't—" he hissed as a stitch pulled roughly, "—don't get it. Why she did this."

"To get the Eye of God," Castiel said.

"To punish you," Sam replied.

Dean shook his head, his eyes on the vaulted, warehouse ceiling. "I don't know. I think it was more than that."

"What did you do to her?" Sam asked.

Dean heard him suck in a breath, as if trying to physically pull the words back inside.

"I mean, I know what you…. Y'know what? Forget I said—"

"She was the first one," Dean replied softly.

The wood smelled old—dust mixed with mildew and time. It reminded him of Pastor Jim's fishing pond. The dock that stretched out into the small body of water smelled exactly like this. He missed that place. Missed the peace.

"She was angry and…and bitter. A real bitch, y'know? But she…she was a _person_, too. Until I got to her. I just…I turned off inside. I didn't see her, didn't hear what she was saying. I didn't allow myself to feel…_anything_."

He was aware of the silence broken only by the sound of the rain. He was aware of the tears waiting, hot and ready, at the back of his throat. He was aware that his voice shook, exposing weakness he wasn't strong enough to protect.

But he kept talking.

"Alistair…well, let's just say he taught by example. And he was a good teacher. And I did things that…."

He couldn't finish. There was a wall in his mind. He could only go so far, remember so much, and he'd hit that wall. It was transparent when he slept. It had slipped away completely when the virus wrecked him. But it was back and he couldn't even _think_ the words, let alone speak them.

"I don't really blame her for wanting revenge. It wasn't human, what I did to her."

"But _you_ were," Sam said.

Dean blinked, pulling his eyes from the ceiling to rest on Sam's battered profile. "What?"

Sam looked up, his eyes finding Castiel. Dean followed his eye line.

"He is right, Dean. It's why you carry so much pain with you. And, I believe, it is why she carried so much hate for you. You were there together. In Hell. And yet you held onto the one thing she lost."

"I helped take it from her."

"How many years were you on the rack, Dean?" Castiel stepped forward, close enough to touch. "How long were you tortured? How many times did you die only to be returned for their amusement?"

Dean felt his face heat up and he looked quickly away, unable to stop Sam from knowing, afraid to open his mouth.

"You are not without sin. You have failed and will fail. But," Castiel sighed sadly, "you try again. You endure and persevere. You are human. And I am beginning to think…that is the only thing that will save us all."

Dean swallowed the knot of tears at the base of his throat, clenching his jaw tight as he felt the pinch of his skin, the punch of Castiel's words. He wouldn't allow himself the release of tears. Not in this moment. Not with these eyes on him. They'd already seen too much, knew too much.

He stayed quiet. And breathed.

"Almost done. You still with me?"

"Never left you, Sammy," Dean said, hearing the weariness in his voice, feeling the seduction of sleep, fighting to stay in the game. He'd been fighting for so long. And now they were fighting both sides.

"I know."

He felt the last tug, then the soft gauze placed over the wound. He heard Sam tear off the ends of the tape. He listened as Sam moved back to the med kit, gathering up what he needed to clean Castiel's wounds.

"This is so weird," Sam muttered.

"Indeed," Castiel agreed, keeping his face still as Sam used antiseptic on some of the deeper cuts.

Dean rolled to his left side, pushing himself upright slowly, watching as his brother mended his friend. His eyes took in the interior of the warehouse and he shook his head.

"It's a mess in here."

"Courtesy of one greedy-assed angel," Sam muttered, taping a butterfly bandage on the worst of Castiel's cuts. "I can't believe I'm gonna say this, but…why didn't they help us?" He looked over at Dean. "I mean…they didn't even…_try_ to save you."

"Who knows, Sam." Dean shook his head sadly. "They got some twisted logic, you ask me. No offense, man," he lifted a hand in Castiel's direction.

"You don't think…," Sam pressed his lips together, looking down. "You don't think it was because of me?"

"You?" Dean asked, confused.

Sam looked up at him, and his eyes were pleading. "Because I'm…because of what I did. Who I'm supposed to be."

Dean felt his stomach drop. Once again, he'd been so wrapped up in his own hell that he hadn't thought about what it might be doing to Sam. How these past two days had to be putting him through the wringer.

"It's not because of you, Sam."

"How do you know?"

Dean looked at Castiel, meeting the angel's eyes, realizing with that glance that his friend already knew what he was about to say.

"He, uh…came to me. In a dream. Or something," Dean said.

"Who did?" Sam frowned.

"Adonael."

Sam looked at him, mouth open, but before he could ask, Dean continued, "When you were in the alley, before you got the antidote…I saw you. Holding onto me. And he showed up and said that I could make it all go away. All I had to do was say yes."

Sam blinked at him, face drawn as if weighing his next words.

"I told him to stick it," Dean said, looking down at his hands, rubbing the thumb of one into the palm of the other. "Kinda makes me wonder, though. What might've happened if you hadn't gotten the antidote."

The brothers looked up at Castiel who averted his eyes.

"I have no answers for you. This is all very different. Confusing. My father is missing. I am spying on my brothers. I am in a body that is not mine, in a world that doesn't want me." He turned back to them, his expression as devastated as Dean had ever seen it. "I am basically alone in this fight."

"You're not alone," Dean replied immediately, his eyes serious, pinned to Castiel's. There was no way the one person—being—who kept him from going slowly insane as he was trapped in the dark and quiet was _ever_ going to feel alone. Not while he was around. "You got us."

He grinned, straightening, then winced as the motion pulled at his bruised chest and wounded side. Curling in once more, he forced out in a tight voice, "We'll be your wingmen anytime."

"Wing…men?" Castiel frowned, the lost-boy look replaced once more by irritated curiosity.

"Dude, I didn't tell you—"

"The rain stopped." Dean interrupted Sam with the realization. "You hear that? It finally freakin' stopped."

"Good. Let's get the hell out of Dodge," Sam nodded.

"We're in Kansas City," Castiel corrected.

Sam flattened his lips, waving a hand through the air, dismissing him. He gathered the supplies, then moved around the table to help Dean down, slinging Dean's arm over his shoulders and leading him to the car.

"We have to dry the weapons," Dean said, his tired mind ticking through a to-do list.

"We can do that when we stop at the clinic."

"We need to restock the salt and Holy Water."

"So we'll stop somewhere with stores and a church."

"We need to change out of these wet clothes before we get in the car," Dean said when they reached the Impala.

"Dean, we can dry the car out later," Sam said with an exasperated sigh. "Stop trying to run the show."

"Sure, okay," Dean groaned as he leaned against the passenger side of the Impala. "Just though you might not want to freeze to death in the meantime."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Fine."

It was a slow process. Removing wet clothes when his body felt like one large wound was not an activity Dean was in a hurry to repeat. He stood shivering, clad in only his boxers as he slowly dried his body with one of their spare towels, the coarse material a welcome caress against his bare skin.

He was forced to wait for Sam to find him some clothes because he couldn't be sure he'd be able to stand up again if he bent down to search the duffels himself.

"I got jeans and a T-shirt, but all your long-sleeves are still damp."

"I'll be okay."

"Dude, I can see you shaking from here."

"We can turn the heat up."

"Here. Take this."

Dean caught a black hooded sweatshirt awkwardly against him. "This is yours."

"Yeah, but it's dry."

"Fine," Dean grumbled.

Using the Impala as a prop, he pulled on his jeans, relishing the feel of the dry clothes on his cold skin. The T-shirt was a bit more difficult, causing him to bite back a groan as he stretched his right arm over his head, pulling at the damaged skin. By the time he'd pulled on Sam's hoodie, he was completely wiped out and shaking from more than the cold.

The scent that wrapped around him curled in his gut, holding his heart in a gentle grip. Musky, warm, with random odors from their life: herbs, leather, oils, ink, salt. It was all Sam. He closed his eyes, remembering.

Times with Sam. Times without Sam.

Sam running off he was young. Sam leaving for Stanford. Sam leaving him on the side of the road in Indiana. Sam walking away from him at that picnic table.

Dean had felt a momentary freedom each time. A sort of guilty elation that he was duty-free, released from obligation. But it never lasted very long. And when it faded the fear and loneliness that rushed in to fill that hole had been overwhelming, crashing waves of emotion against a heart almost too battered to withstand the onslaught.

"Hey."

The voice seemed far away. Everything felt far away. He _needed_ it to be far away. He needed a break from angels and demons and revenge and memories and guilt and Hell and destiny and pain, _God_, so much pain.

A hand was on his arm, gripping him, balancing him.

"Hey, you okay? You started to—whoa, Dean, hey!"

Dean's knees buckled and he was going down, caught in his brother's grip, stopped from hitting the ground by Sam's strength. He couldn't decide if he was grateful or disappointed.

"Open the door, Cas." Sam's order was a bark of sound.

Dean heard the creak of the Impala's hinges and allowed himself to be set inside her once more. Sam's hands were on his face, at his throat, checking, reassuring. He pushed them away.

"'M okay," he mumbled. "Just…just freakin' tired."

"Not to mention you're running a fever." A cool hand pressed against his forehead. "And low on food."

"Mmm," Dean blinked his eyes open, pulling his brother into focus. "Food. Food is good. We should get some food."

"We will," Sam promised. "Soon."

Sam stood, holding a balled up pair of wet socks in one hand, his equally wet boots in the other.

"I don't have any dry socks for you," he said in apology.

Dean took a breath, then looked up at Castiel, sliding his eyes back over to Sam. "I'll change when we get…wherever we're going." He narrowed his eyes. "Where are we going?"

Sam's grin made him young. He straightened, hooking an arm on the door of the Impala.

"I have an idea."

* * *

**a/n: **Thanks so much for reading!One more chapter to go—some mending, some connecting, some truth-telling. I hope you come back for the wrap-up.

**Playlist:**

_All My Life _by the Foo Fighters


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer/ Spoilers:** See chapter 1

**a/n: **And we've come to the end. Thanks so much to all of you who made this latest journey with me. I'm finding myself slowing a bit on the Supernatural Fanfic Writing Machine but I still so very much appreciate that you read and I treasure your comments. There are some days when RL shoves me into a hole and your comments—even if it's just to say _hey, Gaelic, I read your story_—are the rope that pulls me back out again.

I hope you enjoy this wrap-up to the story that started because of a dream. It's been an interesting exploration of description and sensation.

**Tammy**, this bookends your Kazcon author's auction contribution. I hope you feel it was worth your hard-earned pennies, and I'd be honored to write for you again.

With that, I leave you to it.

* * *

_"So much of what is best in us is bound up in our love of family that it remains the measure of our stability because it measures our sense of loyalty."_

_- Haniel Long_

www

They got as far as Salina before Sam's wounded hands refused to grip the steering wheel. He thought to push forward, keep on, get more distance between them and Kansas City, but the constant throb of the split skin across his knuckles was beyond distracting.

Not only that, Dean had begun to visibly shiver, despite the heater being turned on and the black hooded sweat shirt wrapped around him.

_Cas…sure hope you were able to cover our tracks_, Sam thought with a whisper of desperation as he veered off the Interstate and into the plains town. Dean's fitful sleep was punctuated by soft, incoherent murmurs and an occasional twitch of fingers as if his brother was reaching for something.

Sam could tell Dean's fever was increasing simply by looking. Flushed face yet pale skin, jaw trembling, brow furrowed…Dean had always carried a look of frightening vulnerability when his body broke down around him. It wasn't something Sam would ever get used to seeing.

Morning light still bruising the eastern sky, Sam pulled into a gas station, looking to fill up and get his bearings. He expected Dean to wake the moment the Impala ceased rumbling, but he remained slumped slightly to the side, looking smaller, somehow.

"Dean," Sam called softly.

A line deepened between Dean's brows, his lips folding down in a frown.

"Hey." Sam reached over to gently push at Dean's shoulder.

Dean flinched at his touch, his eyes cracking open, but not completely aware. Sam waited a moment; rushing Dean to consciousness was never a wise idea unless absolutely necessary. This time, though, it wasn't the cornered animal he was wary of—it was a rerun of the broken-hearted fear that Sam had heard in the undertones of his brother's voice back in that wet alley.

Sam kept his hand on Dean's shoulder, frowning at the heat he felt there. After a moment, he flexed his fingers in what he hoped was a reassuring grip. Dean blinked, swallowing audibly, his blood-shot and bruised eyes sliding to rest uncomprehendingly on Sam.

"Hey," Sam tried again.

For several unnerving moments, Dean simply looked at him. Sam barely felt his brother breathing. And then, before Sam could think of something reassuring to say, Dean closed his eyes, sinking back against the door with a sigh. Frowning, Sam let his hand fall away, looking out through the windshield at the gas pumps.

He didn't want to leave Dean alone, but he also couldn't _not_ fuel the car. Pulling the keys from the ignition, Sam locked all of the doors as he exited, moving around to the back of the car. He flipped down the license plate and untwisted the gas cap, keeping his eyes on his brother's still form, watching for signs of life.

The silence that had ridden shotgun since leaving Kansas City was an unpleasant reminder of time past when he'd been away from Dean—either by choice or Trickster-induced circumstance—and had felt the lack of connection. Even when his brother drove him crazy with his irritating habits and ever-shifting walls, Dean had been the one constant in Sam's life.

He resented the fact that a cadre of angels and demons were working to take that from him. From both of them.

Shoving the gas hose back into the pump, he loped up to the station, casting frequent glances over his shoulder. The last thing he needed was Dean to wake from a fever dream and panic. He opened the door of the convenience store doubling as the pay station and took in the sleepy sounds of morning regulars greeting each other, standing in line for their to-go coffees, and debating over the Danishes.

A country music station blared on the overhead speakers causing Sam to wince slightly as he made his way to the counter. A gray-haired man in overalls was catching the clerk up on the latest progress of his corn crop, sounding as if he might be gearing up for a long story. Taking a breath, willing patience to overcome anxiety, Sam raised up to his toes to glance out over the window stickers and gas pumps to peer into the Impala's window.

Dean's silhouette was still curled against the door. Sam clenched his jaw. He was going to have to find a clinic now, before they left Salina. He couldn't risk another eight or ten hours on the road. They were both too beat up to make it further.

"Help you?"

Sam jerked his eyes front, realizing the farmer had left. He stepped forward, handing the dark-haired man behind the counter cash for the fuel, not missing the narrow-eyed gaze the clerk raked over his features. Sam knew he had to be a sight; his face still throbbed from the bruises and his hands were killing him. There was also a sharp pinch in his side that he hadn't noticed until he'd climbed out of the car—courtesy, no doubt, of a demon's boots.

"Your change," the clerk said.

"Thanks," Sam folded the cash, dropping the coins into the _leave a penny_ box. "Hey, you guys have a…walk-in clinic or anything like that around here?"

Dark eyes made another pass over him, coming to rest on his swollen hands. "You in some kind of trouble?"

Sam forced a smile. "No, no, nothing like that…just…my brother and I got a little banged up and need some…help."

It was strange how difficult it was for him to force that word out. So often, they did everything on their own. The hunt, the fight, the healing. But maybe…that was why they were both so messed up. Maybe if they had some real help once in awhile, Sam wouldn't be overly conscious of each minute that ticked by as he was apart from his wounded brother.

"There's a Prompt Care about two miles south of here," the clerk finally answered. "Go left on Riggin and you'll see it."

"Great," Sam nodded, keeping his smile in place. "Thanks a lot."

He moved quickly from the curious eyes of the clerk, his thoughts drifting for a moment to the other numerous times in his life he'd had to shrug off or hide bruises and wounds. They'd lived their lives under the radar, and their deaths had gone unnoticed by the world. Yet they were fighting a war where the world's fate lay in balance.

If they lived as vessels or died as humans…would anyone know? Would anyone care?

He unlocked the driver's side door and dropped into the seat, ears picking up the rapid breathing coming from the passenger side. His brother's nightmares rarely resulted in vocalization of the terror, but sometimes Sam almost wished for some kind of clue as to how to comfort him.

If that was even possible.

"Dean." Sam grabbed his brother's forearm, shaking him quickly. "Open your eyes, man. It's just a dream."

Dean's head twitched to the side and Sam felt him pull away slightly, pressing against the door.

"Dean, wake up, okay?"

On a deep gasp for air, Dean surged forward, his eyes opening wide, his free hand swinging and coming into harsh contact with the dash.

"Easy, easy, it's okay, you're okay," Sam instantly soothed, releasing his brother's arm, and holding both hands up in a gesture of surrender.

Dean ran shaking hands over his shoulder, along his sides, then lifted his eyes to hit Sam's. "Chains," he rasped. "There were…there were chains…."

"No chains, man." Sam shook his head. "You're safe."

Dean blinked at him for a moment, realization slow to sink back into his expression. Sam sat still as his brother looked past him, then around.

"Where the hell are we?"

Sam winced at the way Dean's voice seemed to catch in his chest. He was ready to have his brother back in one piece, ready to fight back. This wounded weakness was not going to win many battles.

Sam rotated toward the steering wheel. "Gas station. Salina."

"We're still in Kansas?" Dean ran a hand over his flushed face.

"Yeah—car needed gas and," he paused, working to grip the steering wheel, "my hands hurt like hell."

"Teach you to go ballistic on a demon," Dean muttered, shifting stiffly in his seat. Sam didn't miss his low hiss of pain.

"I've done it before."

"You were juiced up before," Dean pointed out. "Gotta be more careful, Sammy."

Sam pressed his lips together. Another weakness that got in their way.

"There's a clinic just down the road," Sam said in lieu of commenting.

"They hurt that bad?" Dean asked in a thin voice as he adjusted his twisted sweat shirt.

Sam saw that the bandage he'd placed on his brother's wound in the warehouse was once more tinged pink, the skin around it red.

"That and," he tipped his head in Dean's direction, "you're a mess."

Dean dropped his shirt and canted his head back against the seat. "It's freakin' freezing in this car," he grumbled.

"It's your fever."

"Cas cover our tracks?"

"Hope so," Sam said tightly, turning down the road the clerk had directed him to.

"Since we're stopping here, we should stock up—"

"Dean!" Sam snapped, unable to bear the tight voice a moment longer. "Relax, okay? We'll take care of you first."

"I'm not that bad—"

"You are." Sam pulled to a stop in the lot of the Salina Prompt Care and turned sideways in the seat to face his brother. "You _are_, okay?"

Dean looked at him, and there was something lingering at the corner of his eyes that pushed Sam into his next confession.

"I was…that virus was bad, Dean."

"No shit," Dean commented dryly. "I was there, remember?"

Sam shook his head. "No, that's not what I mean." He shoved his hands through his hair, then pulled them down his face and dropped them into his lap. His eyes followed, his voice low. "It proved that they can get to us. Both sides. They can find us and they can hurt us."

Dean was quiet.

"What if…," Sam lifted his eyes, looking through the windshield at the Prompt Care sign. "What if next time we can't fight them off?"

"We'll fight them off," Dean replied, the hard edge he shoved against his words tempered by the weakness in his voice.

Sam looked toward his brother but stopped short of meeting Dean's eyes. "What if _we_ can't? I mean…we're only human."

Dean sniffed and Sam saw him look away. Silence was broken only by the sound of the ticking engine and the muted traffic.

"You still know where you want to go next?" Dean asked suddenly, drawing Sam's eyes up in surprise.

"Yeah…why?"

"Let's get there. Then we can deal with this."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "You okay?"

Dean swallowed. "Not really."

Goaded by that rare confession, Sam climbed out of the car, retrieved Dean's now-dry socks and boots from the trunk, and moved around to the passenger side. He opened the door and handed the footwear to his brother.

Dean didn't look at him when he said, "Dude…I'm gonna need some help."

"Help?"

"I don't think…. I can't bend—"

"I got it," Sam said instantly, doubts of destiny erased by the need to be in action.

Dean pushed himself around and Sam helped him pull on his boots, grabbing Dean's outstretched hand and hauling him to his feet. Dean's low groan shook through his body and Sam crouched, slipping his brother's arm over his shoulders as he kicked the door shut.

"Son of a bitch," Dean gasped, pressing his free hand against his side. "Fucker _hurts_."

"I told you it was infected." Sam moved them slowly forward, worry digging deeper as the heat from his brother's body seeped through his clothes and into Sam. "Shouldn't have let you go this long without—"

"You did good, Sam," Dean breathed. "Got us out of there. Saved my ass."

"Should've moved faster." Sam berated himself, the memory of Dean's sightless eyes in a panic-ridden face still too fresh in his mind.

Dean stopped him at the door, one hand flat on Sam's chest. "Sam."

The sound of his name in his brother's voice had always caught him. Bellowed, whispered, said with exasperation or hope, Dean always knew how to grab him, hold him, keep him just by saying his name.

"You saved my life."

The tight tremble that had been present in Dean's voice since he'd woken up was gone; in its place was the grounding tone of authority and assertion. The tone that had always made Sam want to square his shoulders and walk tall. The tone that had made Sam proud to be Dean's brother.

"Thanks, Dean."

They began to move forward once more.

"Added bonus?" Dean said softly, the tremble returning. "You did it…human."

www

The joy of feeling anything abated quickly when Sam woke him in the gas station.

Dean felt fire roll in a slow burn beneath the surface, but this time it emanated from one specific source: the wound on his side. He felt the fever chewing on him; felt his over-sensitive skin recoil from the touch of his clothes, felt himself shivering from the inside out.

He wouldn't outwardly admit it—he did have the tattered remains of a reputation to uphold after all—but he was indescribably relieved to hear they were heading to a clinic. This time, he knew, they needed help. Both of them.

The look on the receptionist's face when they stepped up to the desk made Dean work to quell his instinctive grin. Her eyes rounded in surprise and she darted a frantic gaze over her shoulder toward an opened door before asking how she could help them.

"Need to, uh," Sam hesitantly replied, "see a doctor?"

Dean knew his face was still bruised from Sly's meaty fist and Sam looked like someone had worked him over and then some. He half expected her to call the police.

"You boys in some trouble?"

"No, ma'am," Dean replied smoothly, this time allowing his grin to slide neatly into place.

Even looking like death warmed over, he knew the power of his grin. It would have been _more_ effective if he'd been able to let go of Sam, but the way his legs were shaking he knew that if he did that, they'd be picking him up off the floor.

She frowned back at him, then handed Sam a clipboard. "Fill this out. One sheet for both of you. Doctor will see you in a minute."

Dean nodded and allowed Sam to turn them around and head to the empty waiting room. They were apparently the first patients of the day. He lowered himself down onto one of the uncomfortable chairs, biting back a whimper. Sam sat next to him and began to fill in all of the standard misinformation.

"Be right back," Sam whispered as he stood to return the clipboard to the desk. Dean didn't miss the way his brother pressed his arm to his side.

When Sam returned, Dean pinned him with a look. "Cracked?"

"Huh?"

"Your ribs."

"Oh." Sam looked down. "Dunno. Maybe."

Dean shook his head. "And you're hauling _my_ ass around?"

Sam arched an eyebrow. "Stab wound trumps cracked ribs this time, Dude."

Dean opened his mouth to retort when a male voice called out, "Paul Cassidy and Robert Longbaugh?"

Sam stood quickly. Dean managed to get part way out of the chair before the slice of pain stole his breath and he was forced to reach for Sam's grip.

"Which one am I?" he asked tightly.

"Paul," Sam replied. "I'm the younger, better-looking one."

"Right," Dean muttered with an abbreviated roll of his eyes.

The doctor was dressed in a blue polo shirt and jeans. Dean couldn't decide which to stare at: the bright orange stethoscope or the gray Mohawk. The doctor's eyes tracked from the form in his hands to the brothers, Dean's arm slung over Sam's shoulders, Sam's free hand pressed against his side.

"Lemme guess," the doctor tilted his head. "I should see the other guys."

Dean's tight grin was immediate. "Something like that."

"Mind if I ask what happened here?"

They answered in unison. Just not together.

"Hunting accident," Sam replied.

"Bar fight," Dean said.

The doctor narrowed his eyes and lifted his chin. "Come on back." He turned and led them through a door and down a hall.

"_Hunting_ accident?" Dean hissed. "What the hell?"

"There's more than one kind of hunting," Sam whispered back.

Dean pointed to his face. "Those other kinds? Don't hit back."

"You, here," the doctor pointed to Dean and a side room. "You," he gestured to Sam with two fingers and a sweep of his arm, "there."

"Uh, doc…," Sam started.

"Robert, is it?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded.

"You're the one with the split knuckles and sore ribs," the doctor looked back down at the sheet.

"That's right," Sam frowned, glancing at Dean, then back at the doctor.

"Head that way and Emily will get you started. We'll have to do an X-ray to be sure nothing's broken."

Dean straightened slightly, knowing what they'd see on that X-ray aside from any cracks in Sam's bones. And it wasn't something they'd be able to explain away easily. Sam didn't move, apparently thinking the same thing.

"There a problem?" the doctor asked, sounding impatient.

"No, Doc, it's just that—" Sam started.

"He's got this…thing…about X-rays. Kinda goes a little," Dean twisted a finger around in a circle at his temple, raising his eyebrows. "Any other way you could check him out?"

The doctor narrowed his eyes. "Tell you what. Let's fix up those hands first. I'll take care of your infected cut and we'll come back to the ribs."

Sam nodded, then helped Dean into the room the doctor had indicated. The exam table was waist high. Dean swallowed, thinking about how it was going to feel to climb up.

"Use the steps," Sam said softly.

Following his brother's directions, Dean sat gingerly on the edge of the table, listing to his left, away from his wounded side.

"You gonna be okay?" he asked as Sam turned to leave.

Sam glanced back, looking at Dean with careful eyes. "Yeah. You just…listen to him. Don't be a hero."

"Dude," Dean said with a cocky shrug. "It's _me_."

Sam rolled his eyes and stepped from the room where, presumably, Emily waited to repair his hands.

"Okay, so let's take a look at this cut," the doctor sighed, stepping into the room moments after Sam left.

"It's here." Dean gestured toward his side.

The doctor reached out and lifted the sweat shirt, exposing the pink-tinged bandage. He gently probed the area around the gauze, causing Dean to flinch and suck in air. His frown deepening, the doctor raised Dean's shirt a bit higher, exposing the massive bruise that had resulted from the injection.

"Bar fight, huh?"

"Might've…been a bit…more than that."

The doctor dropped Dean's shirt and stared at him. "Why didn't you go to the ER?"

Dean rolled his lips against his teeth, trying to think of a plausible excuse. He was good at this; lying to strangers came easily to him. He should be able to tuck the vivid memories of Hell and experience of losing of his senses back behind a wall to draw forth a story this man would accept.

The problem was, he _hurt_. He felt himself shivering and was using all of his energy to hold himself still. The stab wound throbbed and his head ached. If he didn't lie down soon he was genuinely afraid he would tumble off the edge of the exam table.

"Listen, Doc," he managed, hearing the thinness in his voice. "We're not the bad guys. I promise. We just got sideways…of some…people, and…"

He gripped the table as his vision went blurry.

"Easy, easy, okay." The doctor's voice shifted from suspicious to concerned. Dean felt hands on his arm and shoulder easing him backwards to lie on the table. "Jesus, kid, you're burning up."

Dean swallowed, closing his eyes against the harsh glare of the overhead fluorescent lights. Sam's hoodie was too heavy and at the same time not warm enough. He heard the doctor step from the room and tried to listen for Sam, but his body was weighted and the exam table was suddenly the most comfortable thing in the whole world.

Digging his fingers into the sides of the table to keep from slipping off, Dean fought the darkness, needing to stay aware as long as possible. More voices—unfamiliar and anxious—were suddenly in the room, spinning around him. He heard someone calling his name, felt his body lifted, the sweatshirt tugged upwards and off of him.

The last thing he was fully conscious of was the sharp tug and rip as the medical tape was pulled from his belly.

His dreams were jumbled imagines, disorienting slices of life and Hell and memories and fears. He slipped from Sam's laugh to Bobby's rueful grin to John's smile. Images of driving the Impala, lying beneath her, stocking weapons in the trunk rolled into images of a myriad of motels, abandoned houses, and burned-out buildings.

Somewhere in the tangle of buried memories, Dean realized the heat that rolled just beneath the surface of his skin was beginning to abate. He didn't ache as badly, and he could draw a breath without it becoming a battle of wills. Relief began to wear down the sharp edges of his dreams, fading the colors of his memory to a comforting, nondescript gray.

And, finally, he slept.

"Dean."

Breathing deep, he snagged on to the voice. Sam's voice.

"Hey, man, you gotta wake up, now."

His mouth was filled with cotton and someone had glued his lashes to his cheeks.

"C'mon, Dean."

Running his tongue over dry lips, Dean pried his eyes open, blinking at the blurry outline of the person beside him. _Sam_.

Forcing his eyes wide, he looked around, taking in the evidence that they were still in the clinic, still in the same room, and he was still on the exam table. However, he was now lying propped up by several pillows, his clothes gone, covered to the neck by soft blankets.

"There you are," Sam said, a smile in his voice.

"Wha—" He was forced to stop, swallow, his throat as dry as sand.

Sam was in silhouette, the room lights dimmed, the place quiet. He saw a cup and a straw tipped toward him and leaned over to drink gratefully.

"What happened?" He tried again.

"Well…I think you scared the crap out of the Prompt Care team."

Dean blinked, his eyebrows arching up. "What'd I do?"

Sam leaned a hip against the exam table. Dean saw that his hands were wrapped, his fingertips still exposed, but the rest looking as if he was about to slip on boxing gloves.

"You passed out."

"Huh," Dean frowned, lifting his arm and tracing the IV line. "What's all this?"

"Well, turns out you were running a fever of about 103," Sam said, his tone matter-of-fact. "They got it down after a couple hours."

"Hours? How long we been here?"

"It's the middle of the night, man," Sam said. "We've been here like…sixteen hours."

"They let us stay?"

"I talked them into not calling the police—or an ambulance. They wanted to take you to the ER. Probably should've."

"You okay?" Dean rubbed at his eyes, still trying to get his bearings. "Your ribs?"

Sam nodded, lifting the edge of his shirt. His side was taped. "No X-rays."

"Good. Don't know how we would've explained those…whatever they are on our bones." Dean sighed, dropping his head back and looking up at the ceiling. "What did they give me?"

"Fluids, mainly, and a couple high-powered shots of antibiotics," Sam said. "You were dried out, and that cut…." He shook his head. "It was pretty bad, Dean."

Dean shoved the blanket down, looking at his bruised chest. A large, white bandage was wrapped several times around his belly, slightly thicker over the area where the glass had gone in.

"More stitches?"

Sam nodded. "They drained the infection, did some other stuff I couldn't see—and didn't want to—then sewed you back up. Shot you full of antibiotics. Your fever started to go down after that."

Lying back, Dean took a breath. "We gotta get out of here, don't we?"

"Doc's sleeping in one of the side rooms," Sam explained. "Don't know if I can't keep him from calling someone if we're still here when they open in the morning."

"Okay," Dean nodded. He closed his eyes, settling himself, then looked over at Sam. "I hate to do this, but—"

"Already done," Sam said softly, lifting a bag and showing Dean the contents of more sutures, bandages, antibiotics, pain meds, IV tubing, saline bags, and needles.

"Sammy Winchester. Boy Scout," Dean whispered.

Sam smiled. "You think you can get up?"

Dean nodded before he was sure of his answer. There only seemed to be one problem. "What happened to what I was wearing?"

"Um…that's…gone," Sam replied cryptically. "But I have some scrubs here you can put on."

"Fabulous," Dean grumbled, swinging his bare legs over the edge of the table. He paused a moment as his chest hitched and his side throbbed once in protest.

"Want some pain meds first?"

Dean nodded silently, reaching out as Sam handed him the pills. He swallowed them with the rest of the water, waiting patiently while Sam removed his IV and pressed a tissue over the small hole until it stopped bleeding.

"You're getting pretty good at that," Dean commented.

Sam huffed out a quick laugh. "I should've gone to medical school instead of law school. Woulda been more practical."

"You would've made a great lawyer, Sam."

Sam looked up at him, surprise in his eyes. "What makes you say that?"

"You argue with everything I say and you always gotta be right."

"No, I don't," Sam instantly protested, then smirked. "Shut up."

Dean slid from the table, grateful that his legs supported him. Pulling on the scrubs Sam handed him, he used the table for balance as he shoved his feet into his unlaced boots. He waited while Sam opened the door, checking the hallway.

"Okay, it's clear." Sam nodded toward the opening, leading the way out.

Dean's body felt oddly hollow, but he was no longer shaking. Squaring his shoulders, he followed Sam down the hall, pausing briefly as they crept past the room where the doctor slept. They slipped out of the Prompt Care and into the night, the ever-present Kansas wind cutting through the thin scrubs and raising goose bumps along his skin.

"Get in," Sam ordered.

"I'll drive," Dean argued.

"Like hell."

"Sam—"

"Dude, just get in the damn car and let's get out of here," Sam snapped.

Dean's brow furrowed at Sam's tone, but he reluctantly obeyed—mostly because he was freezing his ass off and he didn't want to get caught by the Mohawk-wearing doctor. He waited until Sam pulled out of the clinic before speaking again.

"Find a motel."

"Not in Salina."

"Fine, whatever. Just pull over at the first one you see."

Sam looked over at him. "You okay?"

"I'll be fine," Dean snapped. "It's you I'm worried about."

"Me? I'm not the one that went through hell these last two days, Dean."

Dean arched a brow, tilting his chin toward Sam. "Is that right?"

Sam looked back out at the road.

"When's the last time you slept, Sam?"

Sam was quiet a moment. "Not like you slept, either," he grumbled.

"Got me a nap back at the clinic."

"You were _unconscious_. Hardly the same thing."

"So we both need some down time," Dean shot back.

"You're a stubborn jerk, you know that?" Sam stated.

"Worked that out all by yourself, did you?"

Dean gripped the dash as Sam pulled out onto the Interstate, keeping a lookout for street signs that would indicate a safe place to pull off for a few hours. Sam's quiet filled the car and pressed against Dean's still-healing body.

"Just spit it out already, Sam."

For a moment, Sam resisted. Dean watched his brother's bandaged hands curl around the steering wheel as he fought against himself.

"Back at the clinic…when you were…," Sam tilted his head, working his lips in a gesture Dean recognized as holding back emotion. "You were dreaming. Again. And you usually don't say anything. You just…it looks like you're fighting something. But this time…you said…."

He stopped, shaking his head.

"What did I say?" Dean prompted quietly.

"You said, _I tried_."

Dean looked down. He remembered the mottled mess of his dream, the images and voices twisting and blending into a colored Rorschach test. He didn't remember saying anything.

And he couldn't figure out what to say now.

"I just…I want you to know that…I _know_, Dean."

"You know what?"

"I _know_ you tried. I know that…that everything Cas said was true. That you were…that you never…went darkside. In Hell."

Dean slid his eyes to the side. It wasn't something he'd realized Sam worried about. His going darkside. Becoming a demon. But as gears suddenly fit into place in his mind, he kicked himself, knowing he _should have_ realized it. He should have figured it out.

"Sam—"

"I just…," Sam took a breath, dropping one of his bandaged hands into his lap, his eyes narrowing against oncoming headlights. "When you told me about climbing off the rack…and that you enjoyed torturing those other souls…."

Any words Dean had thought to say dried up in the back of his throat.

"I thought maybe you'd get it…y'know, why I did what I did."

"Jesus, Sammy," Dean whispered, shaking his head in the dark. His brother had been searching for forgiveness all this time—not from the angels or God or the world. From _him_. And he'd missed it.

"I know there's no way I can make up…y'know, for Lucifer," Sam hastened to say, completely misinterpreting his curse, Dean realized. "But I thought maybe…if you'd been there…felt that…power. You'd get it."

"Sam—"

"But I…," Sam interrupted him. "I didn't understand until all this happened. It wasn't the act of torturing you enjoyed—it was the freedom from the pain."

The car was quiet once more. Dean swallowed, trying to find the words that would offer his brother the solace he needed without belittling the raw sincerity of Sam's confession.

"I was good at it, you know," Dean revealed quietly. "That's why they came back to me—the angels. With," his almost choked on the name, "Alistair."

"I know," Sam replied, his voice husky.

"You're right about part of it, Sam," Dean said, tipping his head to the side, resting his forehead against the cool glass. "About the freedom from the pain. But…there was more to it than that."

He saw Sam's surprise glance out of the corner of his eyes. He didn't move. He simply continued speaking. "Somewhere inside of me…someplace I don't want to think about…it felt good. Doing what I did."

Dean lifted his head, looking over at his brother. "And I think that's why what you were doing with the demon blood was so…." He shook his head, unable to pinpoint the words that would be _enough_ to describe what he felt, what he meant. "It was like seeing the dark inside of me. And I hated it, man. You know what I'm saying?"

Sam nodded without speaking.

"I'm sorry, Sam," Dean said sincerely.

"What for?" Sam asked surprised. "_I'm_ the one that's sorry."

"I missed it. I was so caught up in…in _everything_ I could still remember about Hell and all this shit with the angels and…I missed what you needed from me."

Sam worked his jaw, his eyes suspiciously bright in the reflection of the highway lights. "Well, I'd say we're even, then."

"Even?"

"I, uh," he cleared his throat. "I kinda took for granted that you'd…y'know…dealt with it. With Hell."

Dean shook his head, looking out through the window. "Don't really think that's something you can cross off a checklist."

"Yeah, well, I didn't pay attention. Even your nightmares have started to get…well, kinda normal for me."

Dean tilted his head in concession.

"Took a demon wanting revenge to show me that it's there with you. Every day."

Dean simply took a breath, leaning his head back against the window.

"Y'know…maybe I was wrong," Sam said, breaking the quiet once more.

"Goes without saying," Dean replied immediately.

"I'm serious, man. Maybe…well, maybe Cas had a point, y'know?"

"About what?"

"About humans."

Dean heard him take a breath.

"I mean, that's kinda been the _whole point _of this, hasn't it?" Sam's voice grew in strength as he fastened on to this new conviction. "You never let go, Dean. In all that time, with all the torture, you never lost your soul. You were always human. And that's what she tried to take away from you."

"Almost did it, too."

"No." Sam's tone was decisive. "No way, man. She might've taken away your senses, but you didn't let her win. You said it yourself, remember?"

Dean looked back at him, brows lowered.

"You said that other angel—Adonael—he gave you another chance to say yes."

"Sneaky bastard," Dean grumbled.

"Yeah, well, Cas said that Michael would have made you whole—returned your senses."

"Not _me_. He would've just fixed up his packaging."

"But you still said no," Sam reminded him. "You held out. And you beat her."

"Thanks to you and the magic antidote."

"I'm just saying…maybe our humanity really will be the only thing that gets us through this fight."

"Yeah, maybe," Dean conceded softly, truly tired of trying to figure out the answers to questions that were above his paygrade.

As they drove on into the thin hours of early morning, Sam's words rattled around Dean's head like pin balls, bouncing against the barriers he'd constructed to keep him sane, and keep others safe.

"Motel, five miles," Sam said finally.

"Take it."

With Dean was still in scrubs, Sam went inside—bandaged hands and all—to get a room. Dean unlocked the motel room door as the key was a bit hard for Sam to manage, and they tumbled silently inside, dropping their bags and weapons, locking the door and falling into their beds without another word to each other.

When Dean next opened his eyes, light spilled bright and hot into the room. Sam was snoring, sprawled across the other bed, clad in only his boxers, his hair sticking to his face in sweaty strings. Rising stiffly, Dean made his way to the new medicine bag, swallowed some pain meds and antibiotics, then took a change of clothes to the bathroom.

As steam from the shower filled the small room, he regarded himself in the mirror.

_I tried_.

Had it been enough to_ try_? What about now? Would it be enough to _try _to hold back an angel, resist his demands? Dragging a hand down his face he saw the answer staring back at him. If they were going to come out of this on the other side—whole, complete, _human_—he was going to have to do a damn site better than _try_.

Showered, shaved, and starving, he exited the bathroom to find his brother still sleeping. Jotting down a note, he grabbed the Impala keys and snuck out of the room in search of food. His body felt as if it finally belonged to him once more. Taking a heady breath of the mid-morning air, he slid behind the wheel of his car, his eyes rolling closed with pleasure for a brief moment as she roared to life.

"Better than sex, baby," he whispered to the dash. "And I should know."

His hands felt _right_ as they held the wheel, the tender muscles of his chest and belly relaxing as the powerful machine vibrated beneath him. As long as he had this car, he knew he'd be grounded. He knew he'd be able to come home.

www

"Want me to take a shift?"

Dean shook his head, his fingers bouncing against the steering wheel to the beat of the music. Sam had noticed he'd kept the volume at a respectable level, not cranking it up as he so often did when he was getting back behind the wheel after an extended absence.

He'd slipped in the Led Zeppelin anthology Sam had given him a couple of years ago after a particularly trying hunt in South Carolina where Dean had been temporarily deafened in an explosion. Sam had smiled as he'd watched Dean dig through his cassettes to find that particular one. _Traveling Riverside Blues _faded and _D'yer Mak'er_ geared up, pulling a smile across Dean's bruised face.

"You gotta be getting sore," Sam tried again.

"I'm good," Dean replied. "Do I want to take 287 or stay on 40?"

"What do I look like, Rand McNally?" Sam replied.

"Dude, you're the one that said you had an idea."

"Which is why I should drive," Sam pushed.

"Fine!" Dean reluctantly relented. "I'll pull over to gas up and you can take over then."

"Good. Take 287," Sam told him, sitting back with a satisfied smile.

When Sam took over, he let the music play on, enjoying the memories of drives when he was small enough to curl up on the back seat, the open windows drawing in a zephyr as the Impala cut through the growing darkness. His father and brother had been close—often times right next to him—and a virtual arsenal had been behind him. He'd never been safer, more protected.

And Zeppelin had played on.

"Uh…Dude. Where the _hell_ are we going?" Dean finally asked as Sam veered from a country road to a dirt road.

The dark was thick, dragging against the windows like a lover's parting fingers, and the Impala jostled across the rough ground.

"_With all the fun to have, to live the dreams we always had, with all the songs to sing, when we at last return again…."_

"Told you I had an idea," Sam replied, grunting as they cleared a deeper pothole.

"Was it to strand us in the middle of nowhere with a flat tire?"

"Just…chill out. We're almost there."

He ignored the way Dean gripped the dash with one hand and pressed a hand against the roof with the other. He ignored the clenched jaw and muttered curses. He just let the music play and watched for the opening.

"There," he said softly, turning the wheel hard right and threading the trees with the large Chevy.

"What the fu—"

"Trust me," Sam interjected, grinning as they broke through the tree line and spilled into a large clearing. He stopped the car, turning off the lights but left the engine running to fuel the music, and sat back with a smile as he looked over at Dean.

"I don't get it." Dean frowned.

Shaking his head Sam leaned forward across the wheel, looking out through the windshield as the star-sliver grass bending in the soft Colorado wind.

"Remember when the virus first hit and you said you could smell grass?"

Dean nodded slowly, his eyes beginning to widen with memory.

"And you remembered that night we camped out in a clearing and got drunk off our asses?"

"No way," Dean breathed in soft realization, his hand on the door. "_No way_ you remembered the clearing."

Sam grinned, watching as Dean climbed stiffly from the car and leaned on the opened door.

"I'll be goddamned," Dean uttered softly. "How the hell…?"

"I didn't remember where it was straight off," Sam said, climbing from the car, then moving around to the back and opening the trunk. "But I started thinking about sensory memory. Like," he paused, hesitating sharing this small bit of information, "how the smell of lilies reminds me of Jessica."

He closed the trunk, a case of beer in his arms, to see Dean staring at him, starlight tossing shadows across the plains of his face.

"I never knew that," Dean said, his tone apologetic.

Sam shrugged, plowing forward. "How could you know? I never told you."

Dean simply watched him a moment, his eyes unguarded.

"He used her, you know," Sam choked out.

"Who?"

"Lucifer. Used Jess." He stopped. It was harder than he'd thought it would be to share this with his brother. To simply speak this out loud.

A line buried itself deep between Dean's brows and his lips thinned as he opened his mouth to no doubt tear the night with a stream of obscenities.

"I told you I dreamed about her—about Jess—when I was…away," Sam reminded him.

Clenching his jaw, Dean nodded. Sam felt an ache he hadn't been consciously aware of begin to ease as he let Dean in on the secret.

"That how he found me—through my dreams. Through her."

"Son of a bitch," Dean spat, looking away, the starlight playing with the jump of his jaw muscle. "I knew that demon bitch found a girl that looked enough like her to…." He bit off the rest of what he was going to say. "Guess the bastard knows how to find our weaknesses, huh?"

"He found a good one," Sam replied softly.

"I swear I'm so going to gut that snake." Dean's words dripped venom through teeth clenched in quiet-burning anger.

"Get in line," Sam huffed out a humorless laugh. He was quiet a moment, watching his brother looking out over the clearing, knowing that instead of gently blowing grass he saw the death of their enemy. "Feels good to tell you that."

Dean looked back at him, still holding on to the door, his eyes now shadowed. Sam moved around to the front of the car, setting the beer on the ground and letting Zeppelin fill the space between them. He looked up at the myriad of stars spread out above them in the velvet expanse of a moonless sky.

"_And if you feel that you can't go on. And your will's sinkin' low. Just believe and you can't go wrong. In the light you will find the road. You will find the road."_

"Anyway," Sam said, picking up where he'd left off. "After you brought it up, I tried to remember that night in the clearing, but when I thought about the smell of grass, all I could think about was…."

"What?" Dean pushed gently when Sam paused.

"The night I buried you," Sam revealed quietly.

Dean looked down.

"But I _wanted_ that memory—the one _you_ had," Sam continued. "I wanted it back, and that's when I remembered the hunt we'd been on when we ended up in the clearing."

"Witches?" Dean tilted his head in question, moving away from the door and joining Sam at the front of the car.

"Yeah," Sam nodded, watching as Dean bent, one hand pressed against his tender side, and grabbed two bottles. "I was kinda…claustrophobic after they locked me in that trunk."

"Yeah, I remember," Dean nodded, smiling as he handed Sam an opened bottle and twisted his own cap free, tossing it back in the box.

Sam had purposely bought twist-off caps since they lacked Dean's ring to remove the tops. He wasn't sure when his brother stopped wearing it, but he hadn't seen it for some time. One more mark on the tally sheet of things that had changed in the past several months. He slid up on the hood of the car, hooking his heels against the front bumper. The car shifted slightly as Dean joined him off to the side.

"You made it like this…adventure," Sam chuckled. "Just like when we were kids and Dad would be gone for longer than normal."

"Well, you were so squirrely; I had to get you grounded so we could sleep _inside_ again."

"I don't think I'd ever been that drunk before," Sam said, sipping his beer and lifting his eyes to the stars.

"_Leaves are fallin' all around, time I was on my way. Thanks to you, I'm much obliged for such a pleasant stay. But now it's time for me to go, the autumn moon lights my way…."_

"Maybe not _before_," Dean said, a grin in his tone, "but you sure as hell made up for it _after_."

"Bite me," Sam grinned, glancing over his shoulder at his brother, watching as Dean's eyes tracked the stars.

Dean dropped his gaze to meet Sam's, and he raised his beer. "To memories."

Sam thought of the night drives with his dad, Dean, and Zeppelin. He raised his beer, but Dean wasn't finished.

"And to never forgetting," he added softly, his eyes on Sam's.

A lump lodged in his throat, Sam nodded, clicking the neck of his bottle against his brother's.

"Thanks, Dean," he said quietly.

Dean's half-grin seemed to erase years from his bruised face and his eyes reflected the starlight as he tipped his beer up for a drink.

The night wrapped around them like an old friend, the forgotten light of the stars illuminating the clearing with a silver glow. The music kept them company as they worked their way through the case of beer, tension leaking free in the silence.

They had a battle ahead of them still, and both had survived too much to think that one night of peace would heal over a year's worth of invisible wounds. But as Sam sat on the hood of the Impala, his brother next to him, both with eyes lifted in silent regard of the night sky, the hours slipped past with nothing but music filling the quiet, and he found a little bit of hope for humanity.

"_Oh, war is the common cry, pick up your swords and fly. The sky is filled with good and bad, mortals never know…."_

* * *

**a/n: **Thanks for hangin' with me. As promised, I have posted some extraordinary manips by Thru Terry's Eyes and a fantastic vid by LovinJackson to the song "Call Me" by Shinedown, specifically made for this story over on my LiveJournal:

gaelicspirit(dot)livejournal(dot)com(backslash)

Replace the (words) with the symbols as per usual. The talent of these ladies blows me away and I'm ever so thankful to have their skills add to the flavor of this story. I hope you enjoy.

**Playlist:**

Led Zeppelin:

_Travelin' Riverside Blues_  
_D'yer Mak'er_  
_Achilles Last Stand_  
_In the Light_  
_Ramble On_  
_The Battle of Evermore_


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